<h2><SPAN name="page25"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>LAST LOVE</h2>
<p class="poetry">The first flower of the spring is not so
fair<br/>
Or bright as one the ripe midsummer brings.<br/>
The first faint note the forest warbler sings<br/>
Is not as rich with feeling, or so rare<br/>
As when, full master of his art, the air<br/>
Drowns in the liquid sea of song he flings<br/>
Like silver spray from beak, and breast, and wings.<br/>
The artist’s earliest effort, wrought with care,<br/>
The bard’s first ballad, written in his tears,<br/>
Set by his later toil, seems poor and tame,<br/>
And into nothing dwindles at the test.<br/>
So with the passions of maturer years.<br/>
Let those who will demand the first fond flame,<br/>
Give me the heart’s <i>last love</i>, for that is best.</p>
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