L’Envoi (1881)

Rhymes, or of grief or of sorrow 
  Pass and are not,
Rhymes of today—tomorrow 
  Lie forgot.

I that am writer of verses—
  What is my prize?—
 Palm crowns and gold filled purses, 
  Honour  that  dies
  As the year flies,
As the multitude breaks and disperses
And the new Generations arise—?

If through these rhymes in their reading 
  Thy blood should be
Quickened one moment conceding 
  Homage to me—
l have got me a prize far exceeding 
  All prizes that be.