EPILOGUE.
THE leafless branches snap with cold; The night is still, the winds are laid; And you are sitting, as of old, Beside my hearth-stone, heavenly maid! What would have chanced me all these years, As boy and man, had you not come And brought me gifts of smiles and tears From your Olympian home?
"The blackest cloud that ever lowers," You sang when I was most forlorn, "If we but watch some patient hours, Takes silver edges from the morn." Thanks for the lesson; thanks for all, Not only for ambrosia brought, But for those drops which fell like gall Into the cup of thought.
Dear Muse, 't is twenty years or more Since that enchanted, fairy time When you came tapping at my door, Your reticule stuffed full of rhyme. What strange things have befallen, indeed,