 | A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England |  |
TO A FRIEND,—WITH A BOOK.
Not as a token of my love,—
For countless offerings, light as this,
Can never tell thee half its high
And holy tenderness!
For countless offerings, light as this,
Can never tell thee half its high
And holy tenderness!
Not as a gift of gratitude,—
A world's wealth could not guerdon thee,
For the divine, deep wealth of heart,
Thou lavishest on me!
A world's wealth could not guerdon thee,
For the divine, deep wealth of heart,
Thou lavishest on me!
But as a simple souvenir,
Of one, who proudly calls thee friend,
Appealing to thy memory,
The little book I send.
Of one, who proudly calls thee friend,
Appealing to thy memory,
The little book I send.
| A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England | |