‘My hand hath lost its cunning,
My eyes are growing dim,
So my Muse’s fount stops running,
With this tiny Birthday hymn.
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‘My dear Friend,—Thy praise nearly forty years ago reconciled me to my first poetical efforts. Do I hope too much in desiring to obtain it for what may prove my last? I expect I shall provoke a smile from thee in
MRS. KEMBLE: WORDSWORTH | 323 |
‘Believe me ever respectfully thine,