Thou art not of earth, thou beautiful thing,
With thy changeless form and hue-
For thou in thy heart hast ever borne
A drop of that living dew
That nourished thee, when earth was young,
And the music of Eden around thee rung.

Thou art not of earth; no change is thine
No touch of death or decay;
And the airs that fanned thee in Paradise,
Seem over thy leaves to play;
And they whisper still of fadeless bowers,
Where never shall wither the blooming flowers.

Thou art not of earth; thou changest not
When the wintry blast is nigh,
Though thy scattered leaves are wildly tossed
On the wind as it rushes by;
For even then, in that hour of dread.
Not a hue of beauty hath left the dead.

I deem that Eve, when in terror forced
From her Eden home to part,
Must have sadly looked on those fadeless bowers,
And clasped thee to her heart-
And thou in thy exile still dost tell
Of a changeless home where the good shall dwell.