08.01.2019, 10:29
TO S. M. D.
I BROUGHT thee, love, the first pale buds of spring,
Frail blooms that trembled in the lonely dells ;
Wild violets, mayhap, or nodding bells
Gathered when happy birds on joyous wing
Fluttered from bough to bough to coo and sing.
I brought thee summer roses, such as grow
In our own garden ground, and do not know
The grace of tenderer culture. Now I bring
The early fiowers of autumn golden-rod
Plucked by the wayside, asters starry-eyed,
With here and there, alas ! a crimson leaf
That dropped, untitnely, on the waiting sod.
Dear heart .' refuse not thou this later sheaf
From fields where we have wandered side by side.
I BROUGHT thee, love, the first pale buds of spring,
Frail blooms that trembled in the lonely dells ;
Wild violets, mayhap, or nodding bells
Gathered when happy birds on joyous wing
Fluttered from bough to bough to coo and sing.
I brought thee summer roses, such as grow
In our own garden ground, and do not know
The grace of tenderer culture. Now I bring
The early fiowers of autumn golden-rod
Plucked by the wayside, asters starry-eyed,
With here and there, alas ! a crimson leaf
That dropped, untitnely, on the waiting sod.
Dear heart .' refuse not thou this later sheaf
From fields where we have wandered side by side.