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, —

In love that would not let me sleep,
I hung above thy tranquil rest,
Whose soft, low breathings scarcely stirred
The snowy folds upon thy breast,
And watched to see thy starry eyes
Beam from their blue-veined lids' eclipse,
And drank thy very breath, and kissed
The night-dew from thy rose-bud lips!

As one in moon-lit, star-crowned night
Marks not the dark and envious shades
That lurk within the garden-bower,
Or glide along the forest-glades;
Thus heed I not life's shadows dim,
Though gathering fast, around, above,
The blessed while 't is mine to feel
The silvery presence of thy love.