Pine, Rose and Fleur de Lis

by Susie Frances Harrison




Friend, these simple rhymes forgive!
I do not ask that they should live
In your memory or your mind;
If within your heart enshrin’d
I shall deem that Fate was kind.
Simple, nay, imperfect too,
Judge them—as you’re free to do.
But the while you lightly blame
Rhymes that bear a Gallic name,
Carping at the foreign metre,
Thinking English had been sweeter,
Let at least each sparkling rill,
Each quaint church upon a hill,
And a quainter people still
Charm you, friend, to near forgetting
All the poorness of the setting.
Read my cantefable chiefly
For its subject. Yet—and briefly—
Read it—’tis Montaigne’s own line—
“Not because ’tis good, but—mine.”

Thus I send these fifty-two
Simple rhymes, my friend, to you.



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