107
LOVE-LETTER TO A FRIEND.
Dear Anna, hast ne'er heard it told
How florists have the curious power
To graft on some rude garden-plant
A tender and exquisite flower?
Thus are our natures made as one,
In union mystic and divine;
Thus, sweetest rose of womanhood,
Thy life is blooming into mine.
Dear Anna, hast ne'er heard it told
How florists have the curious power
To graft on some rude garden-plant
A tender and exquisite flower?
Thus are our natures made as one,
In union mystic and divine;
Thus, sweetest rose of womanhood,
Thy life is blooming into mine.
"Forget" thee! Whence the childish fear?
Ah, vain would be such heart-recalling!
Have I not felt thine angel smiles,—
Thy tears upon my bosom falling?
How oft, when, through our lattice stealing,
The moonlight came in quivering gleams,
When thou wert by my side reposing,
Thy spirit busy with its dreams,—
Ah, vain would be such heart-recalling!
Have I not felt thine angel smiles,—
Thy tears upon my bosom falling?
How oft, when, through our lattice stealing,
The moonlight came in quivering gleams,
When thou wert by my side reposing,
Thy spirit busy with its dreams,—
