THESE others ask me little, clamoring
For such imperfect gifts as I can bring;
A crown . . . with thorns along it . . . or much gold
To weigh the heart down with its dragging hold . . .
Or men's loud voices calling on their name,
A little day, then hurt and scorn– called Fame–
Or for one fleeting hour a world made new
Called Love . . . But, Child, these gifts are not for you.

Too clear of sight, you ask things past my hold;
A light beyond the sunlight . . . Fairy-gold . . .
Love ageless and unflawed . . . Faith crystal-true . . .
So, Child, I keep my broken gifts from you,
Leaving instead my only perfect thing,
The Dream these others lose, all-sorrowing,
Still raptured, still all-golden; yours to keep
Till Death my sister's gift, more perfect Sleep.