I send thee from this Summer land,
Fair maiden of the Northern clime,
These sweet shrubs, gathered by my hand,
Where we two lingered in past time.

You loved so well no other flower
As this, the sweetest of the wood,
That prospers most in shaded bower,
In Nature's own grand solitude.

And as I pluck these from her breast,
The last to open to the sky,
You'll joy to know my lips them pressed
As on thy gentle breast they lie.