THIS box, mine own sweet darling, thou wilt findWith many a varied sweetmeat's form supplied;The fruits are they of holy Christmas tide, But baked indeed, for children's use design'd.
I'd fain, in speeches sweet with skill combin'd,Poetic sweetmeats for the feast provide;But why in such frivolities confide?
Perish the thought, with flattery to blind!
One sweet thing there is still, that from within,Within us speaks,--that may be felt afar;This may be wafted o'er to thee alone.
If thou a recollection fond canst win,As if with pleasure gleam'd each well-known star,The smallest gift thou never wilt disown.
1807.
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