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Full Online Book HomePoemsThese Verses Are Gratefully Dedicated
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These Verses Are Gratefully Dedicated Post by :Lowell Category :Poems Author :Harry Graham Date :November 2011 Read :1346

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These Verses Are Gratefully Dedicated

"From quiet home and first beginning,
Out to the undiscovered ends,
There's nothing worth the wear of winning,
But laughter and the love of friends.

My verses in Your path I lay,
And do not deem me indiscreet,
If I should say that surely they
Could find no haven half so sweet
As at Your feet.
Unworthy little rhymes are these,
Tread tenderly upon them, please!

One single favour do I crave,
Which is that You regard my pen
As Your devoted humble slave.
Most fortunate shall I be then
Of mortal men;
For what more happiness ensures
Than work in service such as Yours?

Should You be pleased, at any time,
To dip into this shallow brook
Of simple, unpretentious rhyme,
Or chance with fav'ring smile to look
Upon my book;
Don't mention such a fact out loud,
Or haply I shall grow too proud!

Accept these verses then, I pray,
Disarming press and public too,
For what can hostile critics say?
What else is left for them to do,
Because of You,
But view with kindness this collection,
Which bears the seal of Your protection?

(The end)
Harry Graham's poem: These Verses Are Gratefully Dedicated

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Foreword Foreword

All great biographers possess, Besides a thirst for information, That talent which commands success, I mean of course Imagination; Combining with excessive Tact A total disregard for Fact. Boswell and Froude, and all the rest, With just sufficient grounds to go on, Could only tell the world, at best, What Great Men did, and thought--and so on. But I, of course, can speak to you About the things they didn't do. I don't rely on breadth of mind,

The Voyage The Voyage

The Voyage
The world is equal to the child's desire Who plays with pictures by his nursery fire-- How vast the world by lamplight seems! How small When memory's eyes look back, remembering all!-- One morning we set forth with thoughts aflame, Or heart o'erladen with desire or shame; And cradle, to the song of surge and breeze, Our own infinity on the finite seas. Some flee the memory of their childhood's home; And others flee