 | The complete poems of S. Weir Mitchell |  |
THE LOST PHILOPENA
TO M. G. M.
More blest is he who gives than who receives,For he that gives doth always something get:
Angelic usurers that interest set:
And what we give is like the cloak of leaves
Which to the beggared earth the great trees fling,
Thoughtless of gain in chilly autumn days:
The mystic husbandry of nature's ways
Shall fetch it back in greenery of the Spring.
One tender gift there is, my little maid,
That doth the giver and receiver bless,
345
Coin of the heart in God's just balance weighed;
Wherefore, sweet spendthrift, still be prodigal,
And freely squander what thou hast from all.
Lucerne, July 1891.
| The complete poems of S. Weir Mitchell | |