To Guy Murchie

No flower I bring you but the scentless weed
That in my youth's deserted garden grew
Wherein no zephyr of soft passion blew
Nor gust of anger bent the barren reed.
What advocate have they, to help their need,
These meagre verses, faded, sad, and few
Writ ere I loved you? Not my love of you,
For that proud novice is unused to plead.
Cast them away, and I will others bring
Of richer fragrance, when the summer's prime
Hast burst the late buds of the laggard spring.
And yet, how idle that I then should sing,
Or you should listen, when to judging Time
The heart will speak without the pomp of rhyme.
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