To W. R. B. 

And so, to you, who always were 
Perseus, D'Artagnan, Lancelot 
To me, I give these weedy rhymes 
In memory of earlier times. 
Now all those careless days are not. 
Of all my heroes, you endure. 

Words are such silly things! too rough, 
Too smooth, they boil up or congeal, 
And neither of us likes emotion -- 
But I can't measure my devotion! 
And you know how I really feel -- 
And we're together. There, enough . . .