POETE.Y OF FLOWERS. 
127 
THE LOVER’S WREATH. 
With tender vine-leaves wreathe thy brow,' 
And I shall fancy that I see 
In the bright eye that shines below, 
The dark grape on its parent tree; 
’Tis but a whim, but oh ! entwine 
My leafy crown round thy brow divine. 
Weave of the clover-leaves a wreath. 
Fresh sparkling with an April shower, 
And I shall think my fair one’s breath 
Is but the fragrance of the flower ; 
’Tis but a whim, but oh ! do thou 
Entwine my wreath round thy blushing brow. 
Oh ! let sweet-leaved Geranium be 
Entwined amidst thy clustering hair. 
Whilst thy red lips shall paint to me 
How bright its scarlet blossoms are ; 
’Tis but a whim, but oh ! do thou 
Crown with my wreath thy lovely brow. 
Oh! twine green rose-leaves round thy head, 
And I shall dream the flowers are there. 
The moss-rose on thy rich cheek spread. 
The white upon thy forehead fair : 
’Tis but a whim, but oh ! entwine 
My wreath round that dear brow of thine. 
