A Valentine

And cannot pleasures, while they last,Be actual, unless, when past,They leave us shuddering and aghast,With anguish smarting?And cannot friends be fond and fast,And yet bear parting?

And must I then, at Friendship's call,Calmly resign the little all(Trifling, I grant, it is, and small)I have of gladness,And lend my being to the thrallOf gloom and sadness?

And think you that I should be dumb,And full 'dolorum omnium.'Excepting when you choose to comeAnd share my dinner?At other times be sour and glum,And daily thinner?

Must he then only live to weep,Who'd prove his friendship true and deep,By day a lonely shadow creep,At night rest badly,Oft muttering in his broken sleepThe name of Radley?

The lover, if, for certain days,His fair one be denied his gaze,Sinks not in grief and wild amaze,But, wiser wooer,He spends the time in writing lays,And posts them to her.

And if he be an Oxford Don,Or 'Jonson's learned sock be on,'A touching Valentine anonThe post shall carry,When thirteen days are come and goneOf February.

Farewell, dear friend, and when we meetIn desert waste or crowded street,Perhaps before this week shall fleet,Perhaps to-morrow,I trust to find your heart the seatOf wasting sorrow.

Feb. 13, 1860.