Rhymes, or of grief or of sorrow
Pass and are not,
Rhymes of today—tomorrow
Lie forgot.

I that am writer of verses—
What is my prize?—
Palm crowns and gold filled purses,
Honour that dies
As the year flies,
As the multitude breaks and disperses
And the new Generations arise—?

If through these rhymes in their reading
Thy blood should be
Quickened one moment conceding
Homage to me—
l have got me a prize far exceeding
All prizes that be.