V

I learned to write of you in sadder days,
And every letter was a piece I chipped
From off my heart, a fragment newly clipped
From the mosaic of life; its blues and grays,
Its throbbing reds, I gave to earn your praise.
To make a pavement for your feet I stripped
My soul for you to walk upon, and slipped
Beneath your steps to soften all your ways.
But now my poems are like blossoms pale
Gathered from a grave with hopeful tear.
I ask no recompense, I shall not fail
And while you did not heed; the long, sad years
Have passed. And now I scatter flowers frail,
And whisper words of love which now you hear.