The birds make music when she speaks,
And vanquished by her voice, despair.
The bending flags that kiss the stream
Move not more gracefully than she;
A vision in a summer's dream,
She wakes all nature's jubilee."
Pretty far gone, is n't he? He is spending a small fortune on expressage and postage-stamps, and every day gives me a little treat of this sort. Some of the most sublime poets have sung of the lover's woes; I think some one had better sing of the woes of the lover's intimate friend.