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!