Gifts

What shall I give you now your giving's over- 
Blossom, or windfall or one golden ear 
Of wheat, to wither softly with you here? 
What shall I give who never was your lover. 
Who knew not yesterday I loved you, Dear, 

Your hands were always full of patient courage, 
Your heart brimmed over with the golden wine 
Of earthly tenderness and hope divine, 
And so, dear heart, I will not bring you borage. 
And so I dare not bring you columbine. 

Shall I bring snow-in-summer to you sleeping, 
Whose going falls like snow upon my way? 
I dared not bring you roses yesterday; 
So, Dear, I put my heart into your keeping, 
And if it be a weed not worth the reaping. 
The dead are kind and turn no gifts away.