Classic Poem

'T IS little I can give you, yet I can give you these . . .
A little naked dwelling to dress it as you please,
And a low moon, a gold moon, swinging in the trees.

And maybe in the quiet, when the stars out-throng,
Your beating heart will tell you how you were not wrong
To count nor gold nor silver sweeter than my song.

So fare you well or stay you, and I will go or stay;
'Tis little I can give you, save love for every day,
And little golden heads for when your head is gray.