She wore a wreath of roses that night when first we
met,
Her lovely face was smiling beneath her curls of jet;
Her footsteps had the lightness, her voice the joyous tone,
The tokens of a youthful heart where sorrow is unknown.
I saw her but a moment, yet methinks I see her now,
With a wreath of summer flowers upon her snowy brow.

A wreath of orange flowers when next we met she wore,
The expression of her features was more thoughtful
than before,
And standing by her side, was one, who strove, and
not in vain,
To soothe her leaving that dear home she ne'er
might view again.
I saw her but a moment, yet methinks I see her now,
With a wreath of orange blossoms upon her snowy brow.

And once again I saw that brow, no bridal wreath
was there,
The widow's sombre cap conceal'd her once luxuriant hair;
She weeps in silent solitude, for there is no one near,
To press her hand within his own, and wipe away the
tear!
I see her broken-hearted, and methinks I see her now,
In the pride of youth and beauty, with a wreath
upon her brow.