PREFACE.
As one who treads a long and dreary way,
And of its dull monotony weary grown,
Seeks to beguile the tedium of the hours
By plucking, as he goes, the wayside flowers,
Thinking the while, maybe, of some dear one
In whose loved hands the blossoms he will lay;
Finds, when his journey ends at close of day,
The little blossoms faded, dead, or dying,
And feels inclined to throw the flowers away,
But, fancying he hears their voices crying,
He tenders them—all faded as they are—
Since they have cheered his lonely path so far.
So I, now that the time has come, am sighing,
Reluctant and ashamed to offer you
Such trifles as these simple wayside flowers,
Which, to beguile life's long and dreary hours,
I culled from the hedgerows as I passed by
The fields or borderlands of Poesy.
And, if my bunch containeth too much rue,
Remember that there is, and aye will be,
Sad songs for those who dwell beside the sea,
And that my pathway has the oftener run
In shadow than beneath the golden sun.
And of its dull monotony weary grown,
Seeks to beguile the tedium of the hours
By plucking, as he goes, the wayside flowers,
Thinking the while, maybe, of some dear one
In whose loved hands the blossoms he will lay;
Finds, when his journey ends at close of day,
The little blossoms faded, dead, or dying,
And feels inclined to throw the flowers away,
But, fancying he hears their voices crying,
He tenders them—all faded as they are—
Since they have cheered his lonely path so far.
So I, now that the time has come, am sighing,
Reluctant and ashamed to offer you
Such trifles as these simple wayside flowers,
Which, to beguile life's long and dreary hours,
I culled from the hedgerows as I passed by
The fields or borderlands of Poesy.
And, if my bunch containeth too much rue,
Remember that there is, and aye will be,
Sad songs for those who dwell beside the sea,
And that my pathway has the oftener run
In shadow than beneath the golden sun.
