Do you recall -- I know you do -- <br />A little gift once made to you -- <br />A simple basket filled with flowers, <br />All favorites of our Southern bowers? <br /> <br />One was a snowy myrtle-bud, <br />Another blushed as if with blood, <br />A third was pink of softest tinge, <br />Then came a disk with purple fringe. <br /> <br />You took them with a happy smile, <br />And nursed them for a little while, <br />And once or twice perhaps you thought <br />Of the fond messages they brought. <br /> <br />And yet you could not then divine <br />The promise in that gift of mine, -- <br />In those bright blooms and odors sweet, <br />I laid this volume at your feet. <br /> <br />At yours, my child, who scarcely know <br />How much to your dear self I owe, -- <br />Too young and innocent as yet <br />To guess in what consists the debt. <br /> <br />Therefore to you henceforth belong <br />These Southern asphodels of song, <br />Less MY creations than your own, <br />What praise they win are yours alone. <br /> <br />For here no fancy finds a place <br />But is an affluence of your grace; -- <br />And when my songs are sweetest, then <br />A Dream like you hath touched my pen.<br /><br />Henry Timrod<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-fairy/
