The First Seasons & Other Early Poems 1918-1924

The First Seasons & Other Early Poems 1918-1924, edited by Jeffrey Twitchell-Waas (1924). This edition available as a pdf (designed for double-page viewing).

This collection gathers all LZ’s known poetry composed while a student (up until the summer of 1924), except for a three poems that were included in 55 Poems. There are 94 poems and one playlet in three groups: published poems, mostly in student literary journals (including a few while in high school); poems included in The First Seasons, a careful selection of early poems apparently made for circulation among friends but never intended for publication; and a small number of “discarded poems.” This edition also includes an introduction, along with some textual notes and annotations. 

I Sent Three Late (1922)

This early poem was added to the Complete Short Poetry (1991). Although apparently written in 1922, it was first published with an explanatory note in June 1965 as a tiny booklet in an edition of just 20 copies by Laurence H. Scott at the Harvard Yard, Cambridge, Mass (here for images). The note explains that CZ “wanted to save / this poem.” Both the poem and note were then incorporated into “A”-18 (390.32-391.8).
Textual note:  as printed in CSP there is a slight error in line 2, which should end with a colon (this is uncorrected in Anew: Complete Shorter Poetry, 2011).

The poem originally shows up as part of a typescript of a carefully arranged selection of early poems entitled The First Seasons (see above), which according to LZ’s hand-written note were composed ca. 1920-1924, the years LZ attended Columbia University. Just when this typescript was put together is uncertain. However, like most of the poems in the typescript, this poem has no title, which LZ added much later, turning the old poem into one of his valentines to his wife. 

The title is taken from Ben Jonson’s song “To Celia (Drink to me, only, with thine eyes),” the second stanza: 
          I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath,
               Not so much honoring thee,
          As giving it a hope, that there
               It could not withered be.
          But thou thereon did’st only breath,
               And sent’st it back to me:
          Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
              Not of it self, but thee.