Gifts for the King — (H. W. L., February 27th)
What good gifts can we bring to thee, O King,
O royal poet, on this day of days?
No golden crown, for thou art crowned with bays;
No jewelled sceptre, and no signet ring,
O’er distant realms far-flashing rays to fling;
For well we know thy beckoning finger sways
A mightier empire, and the world obeys.
No lute, for thou hast only need to sing;
No rare perfumes, for thy pure life makes sweet
The air about thee, even as when the rose
Swings its bright censer down the garden-path.
Love drops its fragrant lilies at thy feet;
Fame breathes thy name to each sweet wind that blows.
What can we bring to him who all things hath?