ALTHOUGH this book of mine is all unmeet,
Light of mine eyes, to lay at thy dear feet,
I think that Alchemy which worketh still
Can turn to gold this copper, if it will,
Enlarge its merits and ignore its ill.Can I forget how, as it neared its end,
A happy chance permitted me to blend
Rare intervals of worship ill-concealed,
Occasions brief of love but half revealed,
Long days of hope deferred, short hours of bliss,
Into a happiness so full as this?
Now come I, Dearest, for my book to claim
Even so great an honour as thy name!