Classic Poem

Slowly my song grows, — as from day to day
I add fresh flowers of ever-intenser thought;
Bright buds the calm of riper age has brought,
Soft violets, roses, red leaves, — many a spray
Rich with the flying tints of autumn gay,
Or blossoms in dense woods of summer sought: —
Blue hyacinths and crocus-petals fraught
With spring, and spikes of frost from winter grey.

Slowly my song grows: to each word a year
Of patient and of earnest thought I give,
If haply, when the world's last leaf is sere,
Thy songs may still be spring-sweet, lady dear, —
If haply in pure music meet to live
I may immortalize thy laughter clear.