Poem by Arthur Sherburne Hardy

With April Arbutus, to a Friend

  Fairer than we the woods of May,
  Yet sweeter blossoms do not grow
  Than these we send you from our snow,
  Cramped are their stems by winter's cold,
  And stained their leaves with last year's mould;
  For these are flowers which fought their way
  Through ice and cold in sun and air,
  With all a soul might do and dare,
  Hope, that outlives a world's decay,
  Enduring faith that will not die,
  And love that gives, not knowing why,
  Therefore we send them unto you;
  And if they are not all your due,
  Once they have looked into your face
  Your graciousness will give them place.
  You know they were not born to bloom
  Like roses in a crowded room;
  For though courageous they are shy,
  Loving but one sweet hand and eye.
  Ah, should you take them to the rest,
  The warmth, the shelter of your breast,
      Since on the bleak
  And frozen bosom of our snows
  They dared to smile, on yours who knows
  But that they might not dare to speak!

1. By a Grave
2. Immortality
3. My Friend
4. On the Fly-Leaf of the Rubaiyat
5. Duality

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