True Gift

As a young maiden, in the morning air
Of Spring-time, when the year with youth is thrilled,
Goes seeking through the garden freshly tilled
Roses and lilies to adorn her hair,

But finding not by any roses rare
Nor other flowers the new-made garden filled,
Takes simple ivy, and with fingers skilled
Tresses a wreath to crown and make her fair,

So I — who in my orchard find no roses
Nor any flowers whose worth is worthy you,
Pinks, lavender, pansies, nor marigold —

Bring you this bit of verse, love-twined and true,
In hope its simpleness more worth may hold
Than heaped-up flowers no thoughtful care disposes.