 | Poems |  |
TRIBUTE.
R. W. E.
Midway in summer, face to face, a kingI met. No king so gentle and so wise.
He calls no man his subject; but his eyes,
In midst of benediction, questioning,
Each soul compel. A first-fruits offering
Each soul must owe to him whose fair land lies
Wherever God has his. No white dove flies
Too white, no wine too red and rich, to bring.
With sudden penitence for all her waste,
My soul to yield her scanty hoards made haste,
When lo! they shrank and failed me in that need,
Like wizard's gold, by worthless dust replaced.
My speechless grief, the king, with tender heed,
Thus soothed: “These ashes sow. They are true seed.”
O king! in other summer may I stand
Before thee yet, the full ear in my hand!
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