 | The Uncollected Poems of Henry Timrod |  |
TO CULL THE CHOICEST FLOWERS OF SONG
To cull the choicest flowers of song from Fancy's laurel'd bough
And wreathe, in one immortal lay, a garland for thy brow,
I may not hope as long as love is limited in thought
To that one radiant dream with which its inmost life is fraught.
And wreathe, in one immortal lay, a garland for thy brow,
I may not hope as long as love is limited in thought
To that one radiant dream with which its inmost life is fraught.
The golden fields of Poesy, oh! never could I roam
Whilst in the shadow of thy soul, mine own may find its home,
No glory there could emulate the image in my breast
Like sunlight on a sable cloud on that dark page imprest.
Whilst in the shadow of thy soul, mine own may find its home,
No glory there could emulate the image in my breast
Like sunlight on a sable cloud on that dark page imprest.
Yet flowers there are which deck the paths that love and passion tread,
And such as I may gather shall encircle thy young head,
The meanest the the noblest forms may often lend a light—
Were Earth not gladden'd by their smiles, would stars appear so bright?
And such as I may gather shall encircle thy young head,
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Were Earth not gladden'd by their smiles, would stars appear so bright?
Thou wilt not then, Sweet One, disdain the tribute which I bring,
Nor cast the tender'd lay aside—an unbelieved thing—
And if, at times, a passing thought thy souls clear mirror shade,
Of him who humbly at thy feet that humble off'ring laid,
Nor cast the tender'd lay aside—an unbelieved thing—
And if, at times, a passing thought thy souls clear mirror shade,
Of him who humbly at thy feet that humble off'ring laid,
Think of him but as of the tones woke by the passing breeze,
When, in its odour seeking flight, it woos the trembling trees—
A cloud that for a moment caught the radiance of day,
The rose once heaving on thy heart, now cast in scorn away.
When, in its odour seeking flight, it woos the trembling trees—
A cloud that for a moment caught the radiance of day,
The rose once heaving on thy heart, now cast in scorn away.
| The Uncollected Poems of Henry Timrod | |