Two Epigrams
Love
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.
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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