In Ebon Box, when years have flown
To reverently peer,
Wiping away the velvet dust
Summers have sprinkled there!
To hold a letter to the light --
Grown Tawny now, with time --
To con the faded syllables
That quickened us like Wine!
Perhaps a Flower's shrivelled check
Among its stores to find --
Plucked far away, some morning --
By gallant -- mouldering hand!
A curl, perhaps, from foreheads
Our Constancy forgot --
Perhaps, an Antique trinket --
In vanished fashions set!
And then to lay them quiet back --
And go about its care --
As if the little Ebon Box
Were none of our affair!
