Last Love

The first flower of the spring is not so fair Or bright, as one the ripe midsummer brings. The first faint note the forest warbler sings Is not as rich with feeling, or so rare As when, full master of his art, the air Drowns in the liquid sea of song he flings Like silver spray from beak, and breast, and wings. The artist's earliest effort wrought with care, The bard's first ballad, written in his tears, Set by his later toil seems poor and tame. And into nothing dwindles at the test. So with the passions of maturer years Let those who will demand the first fond flame, Give me the heart's last love, for that is best.