. To mother . & II OFT like a dusky veil night settles ye dead souls of poets up in Heavn, Lend me the art that unto you wasgiven,To polish gems more fitting for her , my little verses weakly try To soar above, but fluttring vainly, beatAnd drop, like homing love-birds ather feet,Neath the divine compassion of hereye.

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Keywords: ., bookcentury1900, bookdecade1910, bookidtomother00co, bookyear1911