Of glories of old

With ever yet dimmer

Pale circlets of gold

As darkness grows grimmer

And memory more cold.

363 Like hope growing clearer

363

With wane of the moon,

Shines toward us the nearer

Gold frontlet of June,

And a face with it dearer

Than midsummer noon.

364 XXIX

364

You send me your love in a letter,

I send you my love in a song:

Ah child, your gift is the better,

Mine does you but wrong.

No fame, were the best less brittle,

No praise, were it wide as earth,

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