To G. Goodridge Roberts

These first-fruits, gathered by distant ways,
In brief, sweet moments of toilsome days,
When the weary brain was a thought less weary
And the heart found strength for delight and praise, —

I bring them and proffer them to thee,
All blown and beaten by winds of the sea,
Ripened beside the tide-vexed river, —
The broad, ship-laden Miramichi.

Even though on my lips no Theban bees
Alighted, — though harsh and ill-formed these,
Of alien matters in distant regions
Wrought in the youth of the centuries, —

Yet of some worth in thine eyes be they,
For bare mine innermost heart they lay;
And the old, firm love that I bring thee with them
Distance shall quench not, nor time betray.