University of Virginia Library

V. TO THE CYCLAMEN.

Thou Cyclamen of crumpled horn
Toss not thy head aside;
Repose it where the Loves were born,
In that warm dell abide.
Whatever flowers, on mountain, field,
Or garden, may arise,
Thine only that pure odour yield
Which never can suffice.
Emblem of her I've loved so long,
Go, carry her this little song.