To my Lady Graygown: with a Handful of Verses by Henry van Dyke

"Wayside songs and meadow blossoms; nothing perfect, nothing rare; / Every poet's ordered, garden yields a hundred flowers more fair; / Master-singers know a music richer far beyond compare.

Yet the reaper in the harvest, 'mid the burden and the heat, / Hums a half remembered ballad, finds the easy cadence sweet / Sees the very blue of heaven in the corn-bloom at his feet."

For the Over-Lord is generous, no straight walls His love confine; / Unto few, for world-wide glory, comes the symphony divine; / Unto all, for simple pleasure, come the thoughts that sing and shine.

So to you, dear heart, I bring them: you, among the busy throng, / Walk beside me, help me, cheer me, keep the days from seeming long: / All the blossoms, all the ballads, touched by you, to you belong --

You, my flower; you, my song!