Dedication
These verses, these rough records of my youth,
Its moods, its thoughts, its joys; this diary brief —
For so it might be called — of the inner life;
I dedicate to her whose loving eyes
Are still, as in my childhood's days, the stars
Which rule my heart: to her, my mother: songs
Which she has praised have not been sung in vain.
Its moods, its thoughts, its joys; this diary brief —
For so it might be called — of the inner life;
I dedicate to her whose loving eyes
Are still, as in my childhood's days, the stars
Which rule my heart: to her, my mother: songs
Which she has praised have not been sung in vain.
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