TO - , ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE.

TEN years it is, I well remember,

Since you and I the first time met,

You just arrived at woman's beauty,

I but a youth, in years, as yet.

Ten years, so fraught with stirring changes,

For me just threading manhood's ways,

The budding season of the passions,

The training-ground of later days.

And now your picture comes before me,

The same sweet face of long ago -

Yet not the same, for on your forehead

The locks once black are flaked with snow.

Your eyes have still the self-same sweetness,

Your laugh, I think, as clear and gay,

As when we strolled through ferny forests,

In that far-distant, younger day.

What matter then, though time too early

This frost-work o'er your brow has flung?

He hath no power to dim the beauty

Of one whose soul is ever young.