Of Love.
There is a fragrant blossom, that maketh glad the garden of the heart;
Its root lieth deep: it is delicate, yet lasting, as the lilac crocus of autumn:
Loneliness and thought are the dews that water it morn and even;
Memory and Absence cherish it, as the balmy breathings of the south:
Its sun is the brightness of Affection, and it bloometh in the borders of Hope;
Its companions are gentle flowers, and the briar withereth by its side.
I saw it budding in beauty; I felt the magic of its smile;
The violet rejoiced beneath it, the rose stooped down and kissed it;