The enforcèd leisure of the present time,

And dedicate of right my little book

To thee, beloved—sure at least of this

That if my verse has aught of good or true,{2}

{2}

It will not lack the answer of one heart—

And if herein it may be thou shalt find

Some notes of jarring discord, some that speak

A spirit ill at ease, unharmonised,

Yet ’twere a wrong unto thyself to deem

These are the utterance of my present heart,

My present mood—but of long years ago,

When neither in the light of thy calm eyes,

Nor in the pure joys of an innocent home,

Nor in the happy laughter of these babes,

Had I as yet found comfort, peace, or joy.

But all is changèd now, and could I weave

A lay of power, it should not now be wrung

From miserable moods of sullen sin,

Chewing the bitter ashes of the fruit

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