A Gift

Scorn not this gift I send thee,

     Tho’ small it chance may be;

It only tells thee, fair one,

     That I still think of thee.

Think not because I’m absent,

     And midst a busy throng

That I’ve no time now

     To list to my heart’s song.

For all the day and even,

     My heart is praising thee;

And I, I halt to listen,

     And join the melody.

Ah, yes, tho’ miles of woodland

     And meadows waving green,

And rivers separate us,

     I still proclaim thee queen.

And this small gift I send thee,

     From midst a busy throng;

‘Tis this, a humble poem,

     Which thou canst put to song.

Jan. 19, ‘94