University Press: John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A.
TO THE BOY ORIC
Dear son, this twisted, tangled web of whims
For you was woven while you scarcely knew
The simplest speech men use; but infant limbs, That round and smooth in dimpled fairness grew, Waved for all word in a babe's perfect glee, So wondrous sweet to see.
It is not stranger than this world must seem To one who its vagaries first does scan; It is less weird than the enchanted dream Which life may change to ere you be a man. Such as it is, take it for this alone,— That it is all your own.
Those who together wrought its colors gay, And its fantastic warp and woof entwined, May not again for you in work or play Together labor. Yet the loving mind In which they then were one will still be one Till life and sense be done.