Excerpt from Poems of Home and Travel
To
George H. Boker
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.
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