THY sweet image, cousin mine,
Hovers aye before me; Would the form indeed were thine!
How I would adore thee! I see it at the day's decline; I see it
through the pale moonshine, And linger o'er that form divine
By all the flowers of sweet perfume
I'll gather for my cousin,--By all the wreaths of myrtle-bloom
I'll wreathe her by the dozen,--I call upon that image there To
pity my immense despair, And be indeed my cousin fair
[Footnote: These words are written round the slightly sketched
caricature of a face.]