Poems (Truesdell)/To a Friend

by Helen Truesdell

For works with similar titles, see To a Friend.

TO A FRIEND.

I fear me thou hast prized too high
 This simple muse of mine,
Yet proud, dear lady, will I be
 This humble wreath to twine.

Poetic flowers are round me now,
 Fair as the buds of spring,
With eager hand I'd cull them all—
 For thee an offering.

But, ah! they 're mocking to my sight,
 I clasp them, and they 're gone,—
Of all that proud and rich array
 There now remains but one.

One lovely, fair, and fragile flower,
 Still lingers in my sight,
Filling my soul with purest joy,
 Shrouding the gloom of night,—

'T is friendship: dear and sacred pledge!
 I bind thee on my heart;
None other e'er shall know thy place,
 None other share a part.

Thou hadst a fickle sister, once;
 Within my heart a throne
Was made for her,—I fondly dreamed
 That she was all mine own.

All eloquent, she lingered there
 But for a little while,
Then to herself took wings and fled
 Unto a far-off isle.