W. L. 
Ill its midst a fountain sparkles, 
That, with gentle, silvery showers, 
Casts its spray of diamond dew-drops 
To refresh the grateful flowers. 
My free birds sing sweetly, deeply— 
Sing to me the livelong day; 
Of the Past—the Present—Future, 
One resounding, thrilling lay. 
Warmly nurtured is my Greenhouse— 
Warmed by fires, lit from on high; 
Flowers would perish were it colder, 
And my happy birds would die. 
Once my opening roses circled 
Round a tree I deemed secure; 
But no root it had, and even 
Lightest storms could not endure. 
So the roses bleeding, writhing 
Sadly lay upon the grouud, 
Till the passion-vine entwined them, 
And the ivy clasped them round. 
Now, though oft their blushing petals 
To the fallen tree still turn ; 
They, in friendship firm, unchanging, 
Soon forgetfulness will learn. 
