Classic Poem

The flowers that bloom on the bosom of Earth,
Though sweet in their odour, and rich in their hue,
Are emblems too fleeting of beauty and worth,
For a gift of affection, dear Mary, to you.

For you I have chosen a bouquet of flowers,
That ne'er drank a dew-drop nor glow'd in the sun;
They were form'd as the solace of wearisome hours,
In a Convent's deep shade, by an innocent Nun.

Still in beauty will bloom this fair effort of Art,
When the offspring of Flora are blighted and dead;
As a proof of my love, 'twill be dear to thy heart,
And sweet will it seem, though no fragrance it shed.

The rose that by zephyrs is breath'd into bloom,
Like the blush of the morning, will soon fade away;
Not so transient the rose of my gift in its doom,
Meet emblem of love that will never decay.

Bleak winter may come, and the tempest may lower,
Its breath spreading gloom through the garden and grove;
But the blast that disrobes ev'ry green summer bow'r,
Cannot wither a leaf of this Offering of Love.