To My Sister

Were it not so, I dared not give to thee
These pages; for I know full well they ne’er
Can reach the need of thy mind’s sovereignty,
Robed in that dress of thought all poets wear.
But thy dear love doth smile me on, past fear,
Unto thy very heart these leaves to lay,
Which richer grow the while they come thee near,—
For thou dost brighten all upon thy way.
And thus, perchance, dowered with thy love and light,
They may thy nice requirement satisfy;
In thy content, I win a wreath more bright
Than Earth’s wide garden ever could supply.
Ah me! I think me still how poor a strain,
And fly for refuge to thy love again!