To M. (With Some Verses)

If in the summer of thy bright regard
   For one brief season these poor Rhymes shall live
I ask no more, nor think my fate too hard
   If other eyes but wintry looks should give;
Nor will I grieve though what I here have writ
   O'erburdened Time should drop among the ways,
And to the unremembering dust commit
   Beyond the praise and blame of other days:
The song doth pass, but I who sing, remain,
   I pluck from Death's own heart a life more deep,
And as the Spring, that dies not, in her train
   Doth scatter blossoms for the winds to reap,
So I, immortal, as I fare along,
Will strew my path with mortal flowers of song.

by Martha M. Simpson

Other poems of MARTHA M. SIMPSON (3)

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