 | Poems and Sonnets |  |
109
WREATHS.
A wreath of oak leaves for a runner's head,Gold for the monarch, laurel for the brow
Of the successful warrior I trow,
Bay leaves upon the poet should be shed,
And o'er the tresses of a Genius dead
To place white roses his admirers bow—
Towards another coronet I vow
Allegiance, to a strange ambition wed,
A crown of woven ferns and meadow-sweet;
I cannot tell you why I choose this thing,
But go ye into summer woods and bring
The flowers of my choice with speedy feet,
And I will sweep the lyre with finger fleet,
For very love of recollection sing.
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