Thy love's as tender as the drooping rose that
sadly says to earth :
'No more have I the strength to take what
thou giv'st me ;'
But unlike her, alas, thy love's complaint of
dearth :
'Thou hast no strength to give what I demand
of thee.'
Thy love hath heard the many whispered prom-
ises of every soul ;
His birth methinks is nigh coeval with the
birth of time :
He lives in death throughout the ages, and his
goal
Is hidden in the faded flowers from every
clime.
His soul is deeper than the sea and deepest cav-
erns in its bed ;
'T is higher than the highest sky above our
own ;
'T is purer than the morning dew a-dripping
from the salvias red ;
'T is mightier than the four winds, blowing
from every zone.
This love hath offered me the keys of all his halls
and towers,
And to my heart with clinging kisses he ap-
pealed ;
But, ah, forgive me God ! must I the sweetest
flowers
Refuse because they do not grow in Beauty's
field?