Since you have turned unkind,
   Then let the truth be known:
We poets give our praise
   To any weed or stone,
Or sulking bird that in
   The cold, sharp wind is dumb;
To this, or that, or you -
   Whatever's first to come.

You came my way the first,
   When the life-force in my blood -
Coming from none knows where -
   Had reached its highest flood;
A time when any thing,
   No matter old or new,
Could bring my song to birth -
   Sticks, bones or rags, or you!