And yet I murmur not—for you remain!
You and my mother, and the hoarded wealth
Of home, and love, and high and hearted thought,
Which Youth in Memory’s wizard woof enwrought.
These are “laid up” where Time’s ungentle stealth
Can reach them not. And ’tis a joy to bring
This humble garland, woven in the wild.
Back to the hearth and roof-tree of the child:
The wearied heart bears home its offering.
If it relume the approving smile of yore—