A LOVER'S GARDEN.
I think the white azaleas, dear, Shaped out of air to match thyself,Yet doubt if thou wilt find one here Among this fragrant flowery pelf;For they must hide when thou art near,—As pale as moonlight and as clear.
But any rose that here may blow Is not one half so fair as thou,Though petaled white with flakes of snow— Yet bind no spray about thy brow;Let the voluptuous roses go,For roses have a thorn, we know.
But bend, and pass not lightly by, Where faintest odors hover low;Here filmy violets ensky Meanings that should not fail thee so,Since in their heaven-deepened dyePure dreams of perfect passion lie.
