A Dedication

by Alfred Lord Tennyson

　　DEAR, near and true—--no truer Time himself Can prove you, tho’' he make you evermore Dearer and nearer, as the rapid of life Shoots to the fall—take this, and pray that he, Who wrote it, honoring your sweet faith in him, May trust himself; and spite of praise and scorn, As one who feels the immeasurable world, Attain the wise indifference of the wise; And after Autumn past—if left to pass His autumn into seeming-leafless days— Draw toward the long frost and longest night, Wearing his wisdom lightly, like the fruit Which in our winter woodland looks a flower.*