And a straggling star,

 Such memories remain

 The wonders they are.

 Once at the Isles of Shoals,

 And it was June . . .

 Now hear me dote! He strolls

 Across my noon,

 Like the sun that day, where sleeps

 My soul; his gaze

 Goes glimmering down my deeps

 Of yesterdays,

 Searching and searching, till

 Its light consumes

 The reluctant shapes that fill

 Those purple glooms.

 Let others applaud, defame,

 And the noise die down;

 His voice saying your name,

 Is enough renown.

 Too patient pitiful,

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