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Poem	In Ebon Box, when years have flown To reverently peer, Wiping away the velvet dust Summers have sprinkled there! To hold a letter to the light -- Grown Tawny now, with time -- To con the faded syllables That quickened us like Wine! Perhaps a Flower's shrivelled check Among its stores to find -- Plucked far away, some morning -- By gallant -- mouldering hand! A curl, perhaps, from foreheads Our Constancy forgot -- Perhaps, an Antique trinket -- In vanished fashions set! And then to lay them quiet back -- And go about its care -- As if the little Ebon Box Were none of our affair!
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