52 THEEOSE-BUD. 
But there’s a sweeter flower than e’er 
Blushed on the rosy spray— 
A brighter star, a richer bloom 
Than e’er did western heaven illume 
At close of summer day. 
’Tis love, the last best gift of heaven ; 
Love—gentle, holy, pure : 
But tenderer than a dove’s soft eye, 
The searching sun, the open sky, 
She never could endure. 
Even human love will shrink from sight 
Here in the coarse rude earth : 
How then should rash intruding glance 
Break in upon her sacred trance. 
Who boasts a heavenly birth ? 
So still and secret is her growth. 
Ever the truest heart, 
Where deepest strikes her kindly root 
For hope or joy, for flower or fruit. 
Least known its happy part. 
