The reader knows
      His woes. 
    How oft “someone has blundered!”
      How oft a thought
      Is caught,
    And rhyme and reason sundered! 
      With line and hook,
      Just look! 
    And see a swimming hundred—­
      A school of rhymes
      And chimes
    As free as summer air. 
      So, if you wish
      To fish,
    Please angle anywhere.

I.

      Thou pet of modern art,
    Since I the spell have broken,
      Now on thy journey start,
    And gather many a token
      From many an honest heart,
    The best or thought or spoken.

II.

      Go forth, thou little book,
    And seek that wondrous treasure,
      Affection’s word and look,
    Which only heaven can measure.

III.

    This Album comes a-tapping
      At many a friendly door;
    Yea, gently, gently rapping—­
      “Hast aught for me in store? 
    Dear Love and Truth I show,
      To point a life’s endeavor—­
    Thanks for thy heart!  I go
      And bear it on forever.”

IV.

    “Whose name was writ in water!”
      It was not so of Keats. 
    How many a son and daughter
      His gentle name repeats! 
    And Friendship and Affection
      Will keep thy name as bright,
    If Beauty give protection
      And wed thee to the Right.

V.

    So you desire my heart! 
    Well, take it—­and depart. 
    It is not cold and heavy,
        It is not light,
        Seeks to be right,
    And answers Beauty’s levy.

VI.

    Be it a fable or rumor,
      Or an old device,
    ’Tis true; gentle wit and humor
      Are as good as cold advice.

VII.

    This dainty little Album thine
    Is of a quality so fine
    That happy Laughter here may write,
    And all the pages still be white.

VIII.

      There is no open mart
      In which to sell a heart,
        For none the price can pay;
        So mine I give away,
      Since I with it must part—­
        ’Tis thine, my friend, for aye. 
      “Do I not feel the lack. 
        And want to get it back?”
      No, no! for kindly Heaven
      A better one has given.

IX.

There is a cup, I know, Which, full to overflow, Has yet the space to hold Its measure many fold; And when from it I drink, It is so sweet to think—­ What it retains is more Than all it held before.  If you my riddle guess, You surely will confess The greater in the less, Which is our blessedness.

X.