Page:Foliage, various poems.djvu/34

 Oft didst thou think thy mind would flower

Too late for good, as some bruised tree

That blooms in Autumn, and we see

Fruit not worth picking, hard and sour.

Some poets feign their wounds and scars.

If they had known real suffering hours,

They'd show, in place of Fancy's flowers,

More of Imagination's stars.

So, if thy fruits of Poesy

Are rich, it is at this dear cost—

That they were nipt by Sorrow's frost,

In nights of homeless misery.