Explore "Last Love" by Ella Wheeler Wilcox on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The first flower of the spring is not so fair / Or bright as one the ripe midsummer brings. / The first faint note the forest warbler sings / Is not as rich with feeling, or so rare / As when, full master of his art, the air / Drowns in the liquid sea of song he flings / Like silver spray from beak, and breast, and wings. / The artist's earliest effort, wrought with care, / The bard's first ballad, written in his tears, / Set by his later toil, seems poor and tame, / And into nothing dwindles at the test. / So with the passions of maturer years. / Let those who will demand the first fond flame, / Give me the heart's _last love_, for that is best.