THE BOUQUET 
Thou art watching, and thou only, 
Above the Earth’s snow tomb ; 
Thus lovely, and thus lonely 
T bless thee for thy bloom. 
Though the singing rill be frozen 
While the wind forsakes the West 
Though the singing birds have chosen 
Some lone and silent rest; 
Like thee, one sweet thought lingers 
In a heart else cold and dead, 
Though the Summer’s flowers, and singers, 
And sunshine, long hath fled. 
5 Tis the love for long years cherish’d, 
Yet lingering, lorn, and lone ; 
Though its lovelier lights have perish’d, 
And its earlier hopes have flown. 
Though a weary world hath bound it, 
With many a heavy thrall; 
And the cold and changed surround it. 
It blossometh o’er all. 
