To James Whitcomb Riley

Yours is a garden of old-fashioned flowers;
  Joyous children delight to play there;
Weary men find rest in its bowers,
  Watching the lingering light of day there.

Old-time tunes and young love-laughter
  Ripple and run among the roses;
Memory’s echoes, murmuring after,
  Fill the dusk when the long day closes.

Simple songs with a cadence olden⁠—
  These you learned in the Forest of Arden:
Friendly flowers with hearts all golden⁠—
  These you borrowed from Eden’s garden.

This is the reason why all men love you;
  Truth to life is the finest art:
Other poets may soar above you⁠—
  You keep close to the human heart.