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_Dear Land of Flowers, forgive me! -- that I took
These snatches from thy glittering wealth of song,
And twisted to the uses of a book
Strains that to alien harps can na'er belong.
Thy gems shine purer in their native bed
Concealed, beyond the pry of vulgar eyes;
And there, through labyrinths of language led,
The patient student grasps the glowing prize.
Yet many, in their race toward other goals,
May joy to feel, albeit at second-hand,
Some far faint heart-throb of poetic souls
Whose breath makes incense in the flowery Land.
Introductory poem by H.A.G._