O WILL he answer what my hand hath writ—

And not my hand alone,

That's guided by no subtleties of wit,

But by some heart that is not all of stone ?

Then will his mind forget with months and years,

Beset with a throng of friends ?

Will he impute no river-deep of tears,

But such a love as in short season ends ?

Yet will this soul renounce him should he leave ?

Not while its frame endures—

A love which chimes its bells at morn and eve

No chiding word or hush indifferent cures.