Dear R. L. S., whose books each night
We used to read by candle-light,
These many years your body lies
Under the blue Samoan skies,
But still your words ring warm and bright.

In these poor rhymes, however slight,
I fain would tell you, if I might,
Your words brought gladness to her eyes,
Dear R. L. S.

The magic you knew how to write
Evoked her laughter of delight:
With gratitude which rhyme denies
Full utterance—do not despise—
To You, to Her, I this indite,
Dear R. L. S.