Humility

What girl but, having gathered flowers, Stript the beds and spoilt the bowers, From the lapful light she carries Drops a careless bud?—nor tarries To regain the waif and stray: "Store enough for home"—she'll say. So say I too: give your lover Heaps of loving—under, over, Whelm him—make the one the wealthy! Am I all so poor who—stealthy Work it was!—picked up what fell: Not the worst bud—who can tell?