To Samuel Bowles
From ED

late October 1874

Dear friend.

The Paper wanders so I cannot write my name on it, so I give you Father's Portrait instead.

As Summer into Autumn slips
And yet we sooner say
"The Summer" then "the Autumn," lest
We turn the sun away,

And almost count it an Affront
The presence to concede
Of one however lovely, not
The one that we have loved -

So we evade the charge of Years
On one attempting shy
The Circumvention of the Shaft
Of Life's Declivity.