Classic Poem

I bring the flower you asked of me,
A simple bloom, nor bright nor rare,
But like a star its light will be
Within the darkness of your hair.

It grew not in those guarded bowers
Where rustling fountains sift their spray,
But gladly drank the common showers
Of dew beside the dusty way.

It may be in its humble sphere
It cheered the pilgrim of the road,
And shed as blest an alms, as e'er
The generous hand of Wealth bestowed.

Or though, save mine, it met no eye,
But secretly looked up and grew,
And from the loving air and sky
Its little store of beauty drew.

And though it breathed its small perfumes
So low they did not woo the bee,—
Exalted, how it shines and blooms,
Above all flowers, since worn by thee.

And thus the song you bade me sing,
May be a rude and artless lay,
And yet it grew a sacred thing
To bless me on Life's dusty way.

And unto this, my humble strain,
How much of beauty shall belong,
If thou wilt in thy memory deign
To wear my simple flower of song!