Dear Florence! young and fair thou art,
Thy cheeks are like the rose’s heart—
The sweet, red rose, that’s newly born,
When from the faintly dappled sky,
Looks out the laughing glance of morn.
Alas! dear one, I can but sigh
To think how many years divide
Thy happy turn of life and mine!
A river rolleth deep and wide
Between my destined path and thine.