Like the wreath the poet sent To the lady of old time, Roses that were discontent With their brief unhonoured prime, Crown he hoped she might endow With the beauty of her brow; Even so for you I blent, Send to you my wreath of rhyme. These alas! be blooms less bright, Faded buds that never blew, Darkling thoughts that seek the light— Let them find it finding you. Bid these petals pale unfold On your heart their hearts of gold, Sweetness for your sole delight, Love for odour, tears for dew. |