And blessings on thy wrinkled hand,
Thus scattering seed along the land!”
He answered me, with earnest face,
“A poet’s blessing’s out of place;
Likely enough that Heaven, in scorn,
Will send us flowers instead of corn.”
“Nay, friend,” said I, “my tuneful powers
Wake not to life too many flowers;
Only enough to grace the land,
And fill thy little grandson’s hand.”