Oh, love! What is love? 'Tis a tender vine,
Amid shadow and sunshine growing;
In the soft summer hours will its tendrils twine,
To cling when the wild winds are blowing.
Though through calm sunny days it will put forth its bloom,
It is greenest when tears are flowing;
And it climbeth—how mournfully!—oft o'er the tomb,
Gray shadows around it throwing.
The germs its fresh blossoms fling forth to the air
Are wafted, on white wings, to heaven;