 | The poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich |  |
A PETITION
To spring belongs the violet, and the blown
Spice of the roses let the summer own.
Grant me this favor, Muse—all else withhold—
That I may not write verse when I am old.
Spice of the roses let the summer own.
Grant me this favor, Muse—all else withhold—
That I may not write verse when I am old.
And yet I pray you, Muse, delay the time!
Be not too ready to deny me rhyme;
And when the hour strikes, as it must, dear Muse,
I beg you very gently break the news.
Be not too ready to deny me rhyme;
And when the hour strikes, as it must, dear Muse,
I beg you very gently break the news.
| The poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich | |