Bayard Taylor (1825–1878)

WHEN days were long, and o’er that farm of mine,

Green Cedarcroft, the summer breezes blew,

And from the walnut-shadows I and you,

Dear Edmund, saw the red lawn-roses shine,

Or, following our idyllic Brandywine

Through meadows flecked with many a flowery hue,

To where with wild Arcadian pomp I drew

Your Bacchic march among the startled kine,—

You gave me, linked with old Mæonides,

Your loving sonnet,—record dear and true

Of days as dear; and now, when suns are brief

And Christmas snows are on the naked trees,

I give you this,—a withered winter leaf,

Yet with your blossom from one root it grew!