To My Readers

NAY, blame me not; I might have spared Your patience many a trivial verse, Yet these my earlier welcome shared, So, let the better shield the worse.

And some might say, "Those ruder songs Had freshness which the new have lost; To spring the opening leaf belongs, The chestnut-burs await the frost."

When those I wrote, my locks were brown, When these I write--ah, well a-day! The autumn thistle's silvery down Is not the purple bloom of May.

Go, little book, whose pages hold Those garnered years in loving trust; How long before your blue and gold Shall fade and whiten in the dust?

O sexton of the alcoved tomb, Where souls in leathern cerements lie, Tell me each living poet's doom! How long before his book shall die?

It matters little, soon or late, A day, a month, a year, an age,-- I read oblivion in its date, And Finis on its title-page.

Before we sighed, our griefs were told; Before we smiled, our joys were sung; And all our passions shaped of old In accents lost to mortal tongue.

In vain a fresher mould we seek,-- Can all the varied phrases tell That Babel's wandering children speak How thrushes sing or lilacs smell?

Caged in the poet's lonely heart, Love wastes unheard its tenderest tone; The soul that sings must dwell apart, Its inward melodies unknown.

Deal gently with us, ye who read Our largest hope is unfulfilled,-- The promise still outruns the deed,-- The tower, but not the spire, we build.

Our whitest pearl we never find; Our ripest fruit we never reach; The flowering moments of the mind Drop half their petals in our speech.

These are my blossoms; if they wear One streak of morn or evening's glow, Accept them; but to me more fair The buds of song that never blow. April 8, 1862.