By George Sterling

These fragile gifts I send thee, dearest dear—
    Three gathered leaves of ivy, orange, bay:
    The first in memory of that magic day
When first our clinging arms and lips drew near;
The second is for pledge of joy so sheer
    The very thought thereof is sweet dismay.
    Ah! Craig! Love leads us on a dazzling way
Whose rapture, not whose woe, I seem to fear!

But then that third, the fragrant laurel! There
    Is symbol of the recompense we hold
        For this grey world in which we gain such bliss.
Thence were the crowns that heroes bent to share,
    When, to the music of their Age of Gold,
        Pure on their brows fell Fame's transcendent kiss.

Glen Ellen.

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