Chapter 48 No.48

Swallows shall sheer the frozen mere,

Dead reeds along the mill-pond's rims

Shall thrill with summer-thrushes' hymns,

While summer breezes blow apace,

If you will but forgive me, dear,

And let me find a moment's grace,

In your sweet eyes and your dear face.

R. W. C.

THE END.

* * *

CORRECTIONS

page original text corr