THE LAST READER

I sometimes sit beneath a tree 2And read my own sweet songs; Though naught they may to others be, 2Each humble line prolongs A tone that might have passed away, But for that scarce remembered lay.

I keep them like a lock or leaf 2That some dear girl has given; Frail record of an hour, as brief 2As sunset clouds in heaven, But spreading purple twilight still High over memory's shadowed hill.

They lie upon my pathway bleak, 2Those flowers that once ran wild, As on a father's careworn cheek 2The ringlets of his child; The golden mingling with the gray, And stealing half its snows away.

What care I though the dust is spread 2Around these yellow leaves, Or o'er them his sarcastic thread 2Oblivion's insect weaves? Though weeds are tangled on the stream, It still reflects my morning's beam.

And therefore love I such as smile 2On these neglected songs, Nor deem that flattery's needless wile 2My opening bosom wrongs; For who would trample, at my side, A few pale buds, my garden's pride?

It may be that my scanty ore 2Long years have washed away, And where were golden sands before 2Is naught but common clay; Still something sparkles in the sun For memory to look back upon.

And when my name no more is heard, 2My lyre no more is known, Still let me, like a winter's bird, 2In silence and alone, Fold over them the weary wing Once flashing through the dews of spring.

Yes, let my fancy fondly wrap 2My youth in its decline, And riot in the rosy lap 2Of thoughts that once were mine, And give the worm my little store When the last reader reads no more!