Dear Land of Flowers, forgive me! -- that I tookThese snatches from thy glittering wealth of song, And twisted to the uses of a book Strains that to alien harps can na'er belong. Thy gems shine purer in their native bed Concealed, beyond the pry of vulgar eyes; And there, through labyrinths of language led, The patient student grasps the glowing prize. Yet many, in their race toward other goals, May joy to feel, albeit at second-hand, Some far faint heart-throb of poetic souls Whose breath makes incense in the flowery Land. Introductory poem by H.A.G.
