To you the homage of this book I bring. The earliest and the latest flowers I yield, And though their hues betray a barren field, I know you will not slight the offering. You were the mate of my poetic spring; To you its buds of little worth concealed More than the summer years have since revealed, Or doubtful autumn from the stem shall fling. But here they are, the buds, the blossoms blown! If rich or scant, the wreath is at your feet; And though it were the freshest ever grown, To you its incense could not be more sweet, Since with it goes a love to match your own, A heart, dear Friend, that never falsely beat. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PORPHYRIA'S LOVER by ROBERT BROWNING FONTENOY, 1745: 1. BEFORE THE BATTLE: NIGHT by EMILY LAWLESS BROOKLYN BRIDGE by CHARLES GEORGE DOUGLAS ROBERTS TO ONE SHORTLY TO DIE by WALT WHITMAN ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE LAST MAN: SPEAKER'S MEANING DIMLY DESCRIBED by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES ENOUGH by OTTO JULIUS BIERBAUM THE DESCENDANT AND THE ID (MONOLOGUE IN REGARD TO HEREDITY) by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH |