A LOVE-THOUGHT.
If thou wert only, love, a tiny flower,
And I a butterfly with gaudy wings,
Flitting to changing scenes each changing hour,
Careless of aught save that which pleasure brings—
Not even I could leave the lowliest glade
That held thy loveliness within its shade.
If thou wert but a streamlet in the vale,
And I a sailor on a stormy sea,
Flying through whirling foam beneath the gale,