Géranium ! in the cultured round 
Than thee no flower more prized is found, 
And none doth seem more fair; 
Is it thy beauty’s brilliant glow 
That winneth our affection so, 
And ail our tender care ? 
Ab no ! thy innate worth shall prove 
A better title to our love ; 
For, though thy lovely form 
Be broken by the passing wind, 
Thy blossoms crushed by chance unkind. 
Or scattered by the storm. 
More rich thy perfumed breath exhales, 
Nor e’en in death thy sweetness fails ! 
Thus doth affection bloom; 
And thou dost seem to me, bright flower, 
An emblem of her gentle power 
O’er sorrow and the tomb. 
