A POET writ a song of May <br /> That checked his breath awhile; <br />He kept it for a summer day, <br /> Then spake with half a smile: <br /> <br />“Oh, little song of purity, <br /> Of mystic to-and-fro, <br />You are so much a part of me <br /> I dare not let you go.” <br /> <br />And so he made a sister-song <br /> With more of cunning art; <br />But held the first his whole life long <br /> Deep hidden in his heart.<br /><br />Richard Francis Burton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-first-song/
