 | Love's token-flowers |  |
MUSK-ROSE.—Rosa Moschata
Capricious Beauty.
Bear with me, dearest: though thou art
The life of life to me,
Remember 'tis a poet's heart
That gives itself to thee;
'Tis but a wayward thing at best,
And, when with toil e'erworn,
It comes to thee beseeching rest,
It will not brook thy scorn.
The life of life to me,
Remember 'tis a poet's heart
That gives itself to thee;
'Tis but a wayward thing at best,
And, when with toil e'erworn,
It comes to thee beseeching rest,
It will not brook thy scorn.
My spirit wearied with high thought
Shrinks from its prophet task,
And in thy presence I have sought
To doff life's weary mask;
I come to thee for love and peace,
When my soul's light grows dim,
I can not watch thy sweet caprice,
Or learn each dainty whim.
Shrinks from its prophet task,
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To doff life's weary mask;
I come to thee for love and peace,
When my soul's light grows dim,
I can not watch thy sweet caprice,
Or learn each dainty whim.
Oh! had we met in life's glad morn,
When joy thrilled every vein,
Such gentle bondage I had borne,
And wreathed with flowers the chain;
But now I can not gather up.
The rose-bud's fallen leaves,
I can not fill life's wasted cup,
Or bind hope's scattered sheaves.
When joy thrilled every vein,
Such gentle bondage I had borne,
And wreathed with flowers the chain;
But now I can not gather up.
The rose-bud's fallen leaves,
I can not fill life's wasted cup,
Or bind hope's scattered sheaves.
| Love's token-flowers | |