I have a friend who came, I know not how, Nor he. Among the crowd, apart, I feel the pressure of his hand, and hear In very truth the beating of his heart.
Deem not this book a creed, 't is but the cry Of one who fears not death, yet would not die; Who at the table feigns with sorry jest. To love the wine the Master's hand has pressed,...
Fairer than we the woods of May, Yet sweeter blossoms do not grow Than these we send you from our snow, Cramped are their stems by winter's cold, And stained their leaves with last year's mould;...