The Last Reader

I SOMETIMES sit beneath a treeAnd read my own sweet songs;Though naught they may to others be,Each humble line prolongsA tone that might have passed awayBut for that scarce remembered lay.

I keep them like a lock or leafThat some dear girl has given;Frail record of an hour, as briefAs sunset clouds in heaven,But spreading purple twilight stillHigh over memory's shadowed hill.

They lie upon my pathway bleak,Those flowers that once ran wild,As on a father's careworn cheekThe ringlets of his child;The golden mingling with the gray,And stealing half its snows away.

What care I though the dust is spreadAround these yellow leaves,Or o'er them his sarcastic threadOblivion's insect weavesThough weeds are tangled on the stream,It still reflects my morning's beam.

And therefore love I such as smileOn these neglected songs,Nor deem that flattery's needless wileMy opening bosom wrongs;For who would trample, at my side,A few pale buds, my garden's pride?

It may be that my scanty oreLong years have washed away,And where were golden sands beforeIs naught but common clay;Still something sparkles in the sunFor memory to look back upon.

And when my name no more is heard,My lyre no more is known,Still let me, like a winter's bird,In silence and alone,Fold over them the weary wingOnce flashing through the dews of spring.

Yes, let my fancy fondly wrapMy youth in its decline,And riot in the rosy lapOf thoughts that once were mine,And give the worm my little storeWhen the last reader reads no more!