The first flower of the spring is not so fair <br />Or bright, as one the ripe midsummer brings. <br />The first faint note the forest warbler sings <br />Is not as rich with feeling, or so rare <br />As when, full master of his art, the air <br />Drowns in the liquid sea of song he flings <br />Like silver spray from beak, and breast, and wings. <br />The artist's earliest effort wrought with care, <br />The bard's first ballad, written in his tears, <br />Set by his later toil seems poor and tame. <br />And into nothing dwindles at the test. <br />So with the passions of maturer years <br />Let those who will demand the first fond flame, <br />Give me the heart's last love, for that is best.<br /><br />Ella Wheeler Wilcox<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/last-love/
