Dear Heart, this is my book of boyish song,
The changing story of the wandering quest
That found at last its ending in thy breast —
The love it sought and sang astray so long
With wild young heart and happy eager tongue.
Much meant it all to me to seek and sing,
Ah, Love, but how much more to-day to bring
This‘ rhyme that first of all he made when young.’
Take it and love it,‘ tis the prophecy
For whose poor silver thou hast given me gold;
Yea! those old faces for an hour seemed fair
Only because some hints of Thee they were:
Judge then, if I so loved weak types of old,
How good, dear Heart, the perfect gift of Thee.