TO A FRIEND.
I fear me thou hast prized too high
This simple muse of mine,
Yet proud, dear lady, will I be
This humble wreath to twine.
This simple muse of mine,
Yet proud, dear lady, will I be
This humble wreath to twine.
Poetic flowers are round me now,
Fair as the buds of spring,
With eager hand I'd cull them all—
For thee an offering.
Fair as the buds of spring,
With eager hand I'd cull them all—
For thee an offering.
But, ah! they 're mocking to my sight,
I clasp them, and they 're gone,—
Of all that proud and rich array
There now remains but one.
I clasp them, and they 're gone,—
Of all that proud and rich array
There now remains but one.
