| |
|
With a Copy
of My Poems
I can write no stately proem
As a
prelude to my lay;
From a poet to a poem
I would
dare to say.
For if of these fallen petals
One
to you seem fair,
Love will waft it till it settles
On your hair.
And when wind and winter harden
All the loveless land,
It will whisper of the garden,
You will understand.
|
|
|
