So rich the fragrance round bequeathed
By this fair flower—this modest shrine —
I thought thou must have on it breathed,
With those sweet crimson lips of thine.
I placed the blossom next my heart,
And fondly hoped its life to stay;
But each hour saw its hue depart,
Until it withered quite away.
Oh! how unlike my love for thee,
The blighting of this tiny flower!