The white flower of a blameless life.

But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.

But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold

As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid.

Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.

And down I went to fetch my bride: But, Alice, you were ill at ease; This dress and that by turns you tried, Too fearful that you should not please. I loved you better for your fears, I knew you could not look but well; And dews, that would have fall'n in tears, I kiss'd away before they fell.