FAME.

See, as the prettiest graves will do in time,
Our poet's wants the freshness of its prime;
Spite of the sexton's browsing horse, the sods
Have struggled through its binding osier rods;
Headstone and half-sunk footstone lean awry,
Wanting the brick-work promised by-and-by;
How the minute grey lichens, plate o'er plate,
Have softened down the crisp-cut name and date!

 LOVE.

So, the year's done with
 (_Love me for ever!_)
All March begun with,
 April's endeavour;
May-wreaths that bound me
 June needs must sever;
Now snows fall round me,
 Quenching June's fever---
 (_Love me for ever!_)