By: Herbert Allen Giles (1845-1935)
Dear Land of Flowers, forgive me! -- that I took These snatches from thy glittering wealth of song, And twisted to the uses of a book Strains that to alien harps can na'er belong.
Thy gems shine purer in their native bed Concealed, beyond the pry of vulgar eyes; And there, through labyrinths of language led, The patient student grasps the glowing prize.
Yet many, in their race toward other goals, May joy to feel, albeit at second-hand, Some far faint heart-throb of poetic souls Whose breath makes incense in the flowery Land.
Introductory poem by H.A.G.
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