THE SAME CONTINUED br Old memories are sweet, but these are new br And smart like wounds yet green. But one there is br Which, for the cause that it was dear to you br In days which counted upon greater bliss, br Is fairer now and dearer far than these; br And this the memory is of some hours spent br One afternoon when, seated at your knees, br I made narration (it was middle Lent br And you with Judas flowers had filled your lap), br Of the wise secret of these rhymes of mine, br And gave a promise, which behold I keep, br To write them out for you, each idle line, br Throwing you all my rubbish in one heap. br Poor stuff perhaps. And yet it made you weep.