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Poem	MY godlike friend—nay, do not stare, You think the phrase is odd-like; But “God is love,” the saints declare, Then surely thou art god-like. And is thy ardour still the same? And kindled still at ANNA? Others may boast a partial flame, But thou art a volcano! Ev’n Wedlock asks not love beyond Death’s tie-dissolving portal; But thou, omnipotently fond, May’st promise love immortal! Thy wounds such healing powers defy, Such symptoms dire attend them, That last great antihectic try— MARRIAGE perhaps may mend them. Sweet Anna has an air-a grace, Divine, magnetic, touching: She talks, she charms-but who can trace The process of bewitching? · · · · · ·
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