Take, dear, my little sheaf of songs,
For, old or new,
All that is good in them belongs
Only to you;
And, singing as when all was young,
They will recall
Those others, lived but left unsung -
The bent of all.
More verses by William Ernest Henley
- The Skies Are Strown With Stars
- Largo E Mesto
- Beside The Idle Summer Sea
- Ballade Made In The Hot Weather
- Praise The Generous Gods