In five-score summers!  All new eyes,

New minds, new modes, new fools, new wise;

New woes to weep, new joys to prize;

With nothing left of me and you

In that live century’s vivid view

Beyond a pinch of dust or two;

A century which, if not sublime,

Will show, I doubt not, at its prime,

A scope above this blinkered time.

—Yet what to me how far above?

For I would only ask thereof

That thy worm should be my worm, Love!

16 Westbourne Park Villas, 1867.