TO A. R.

How many nights, old friend, in earlier times,

When we were boys, we sat together nights,

Poring on books, with ever-new delights,

Fresh, dewy prose, and sweet and flowery rhymes;

I looked for you, as sure as evening came —

I knew your footstep on the stair, I knew

Your sudden rap, and said it must be you —

For step and rap were evermore the same.

We talked of every thing a little while,

And then I took to writing simple themes,

And you to reading—and I could but smile

(Hunting for rhymes, perplexed and lost in dreams,)

To see you knit your thought-contracted brow,

And when you caught my eye, I wrote again—as now!

R. H. S.