Two Epigrams


Love, like a bird, hath perched upon a spray
 For thee and me to hearken what he sings.
Contented, he forgets to fly away;
 But hush! Remind not Eros of his wings.

The Poet

The Poet gathers fruit from every tree,
Yea, grapes from thorns and figs from thistles he.
Plucked by his hand, the basest weed that grows
Towers to a lily, reddens to a rose.
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