Menella Bute Smedley (Менелла Бьют Смедли)
Love for the Young
Not only for yourselves, but for the years Which you, not knowing, bring to me anew, Are you so dear that I consider you With this persistency of quiet tears; For many silent tones are in your speech, And dead hopes rise and tremble when you smile, Making me fancy for a little while That hands I cannot clasp are in my reach; And my heart cries, ‘What can I do or bear (I that have lost so much and wept so long); How make myself your servant, to remove The sting and weight of this remembered Love, Which was my joy, but may have had some wrong From slights unknown ere Time had taught me care!’
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