“O let no evil betide her,
No sin her pure heart enthrall;
My God, with Thine own hand guide her--
Thou knowest she is my all.
His shining blue eyes filled with tears, and sobs heaved in his breast.
My mother wept for sorrow and joy, and only I was tearless. This little
book contained poems written from the time of my confirmation to my
thirtieth year, of which my mother had seen hardly any, for they had,
except on very exceptional occasions, been hidden from those nearest
and dearest to me.”