DEDICATION 



Love hath an idle industry : 

 And foolish lovers fondly trace 

 The name they love in any place ; 



Nor stay to think how brief may be 



The record of such registry. 



They carve sequestered woodland boles 

 Where solitude and silence reign : 

 They scar the hostel window-pane, 



To shake when any brawler trolls 



His ribald catch to careless souls : 



Or wandering where with sullen roar 

 The vexed sea-bosom maketh moan — 

 Deep-murmuring echo of their own — 

 They linger in the sand to score 

 The name they love along the shore. 



And yet they know the tree shall grow, 



Till tortured characters forswear 



Their legend : glass, though marked with care, 

 Shall break : they know the tide shall flow. 

 And leave the sand as smooth as snow. 



31 



