To

THE flowers I plucked, with youthful freedom straying
Through fields with dreamy poppies sown,
I bring, a priest sad scornful homage paying
Before an idol-throne!
If careless you should please to turn the pages
In which my soul its growth can trace,
'Twill bring, the memory of those early stages,
A smile across your face.
And if some day the shadows come to linger,
And care press down your diadem,
Bethink you sometimes of the boyish singer
That kissed your mantle's hem.
You took my all when youth was free for roving,
Youth that so short a space endures:
Then take these gifts of hating and of loving,
These songs — for they are yours!