Bayard Taylor (1825–1878)

IF that my hand, like yours, dear George, were skilled

To win from Wordsworth’s scanty plot of ground

A shining harvest, such as you have found,

Where strength and grace, fraternally fulfilled,

As in those sheaves whose rustling glories gild

The hills of August, folded are and bound:

So would I draw my loving tillage round

Its borders, let the gentlest rains be spilled,

The goldenest suns its happy growth compel,

And bind for you the ripe, redundant grain:

But ah! you stand amid your songful sheaves

So rich, this weed-born flower you might disdain,

Save that of me its growth and color tell,

And of my love some perfume haunt its leaves.