To J. G. W.
On his seventy-fifth birthday
WHAT is there left, I wonder,
To give thee on this glad day?
Vainly I muse and ponder;
What is there left to say?
There is winter abroad, and snow,
And winds that are chill and drear
Over the sad earth blow,
Like the sighs of the dying year.
But the land thou lovest is warm
At heart with the love of thee,
And breaks into bloom and charm
And fragrance, that thou mayest see.
Violet, laurel, and rose,
They are laid before thy feet,
And the red rose deeper glows
At a fate so proud and sweet.
Gifts and greeting and blessing,
Honor and praise, are thine;
There’s naught left worth expressing
By any word or sign!
So, like the rest, I offer
The gift all gifts above
That heaven or earth can proffer, -
Deep, gentle, grateful love.
