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Poem	As Love will carve dear names upon a tree, Symbol of gravure on his heart to be, So thought I thine with loving text to set In the growth and substance of my canzonet; But, writing it, my tears begin to fall -- This wild-rose stem for thy large name's too small! Nay, still my trembling hands are fain, are fain Cut the good letters though they lap again; Perchance such folk as mark the blur and stain Will say, `It was the beating of the rain;' Or, haply these o'er-woundings of the stem May loose some little balm, to plead for them.
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