I know full well I cannot pour for you
The nectar of the gods;—no epic wine
Is this I bring, to tempt you with its fine
Poetic flavor, as of grapes that grew
In the young vineyards when the world was new,
And only poets wrote;—a slender vine
You scarce will care for, bore these grapes of mine,
From which frail hands have crushed the purple dew.
Yet if from what I bring you, there is missed
The lyric loveliness of some who write,