The sea gives her shells to the shingle,
⁠The earth gives her streams to the sea;
They are many, but my gift is single,
⁠My verses, the firstfruits of me,
Let the wind take the green and the grey leaf,
⁠Cast forth without fruit upon air;
Take rose-leaf and vine-leaf and bay-leaf
⁠Blown loose from the hair.

The night shakes them round me in legions,
⁠Dawn drives them before her like dreams;
Time sheds them like snows on strange regions,
⁠Swept shoreward on infinite streams;
Leaves pallid and sombre and ruddy,
⁠Dead fruits of the fugitive years;
Some stained as with wine and made bloody,
⁠And some as with tears.