We pluck the leaf of perfumed snow, 
We trace love-verses on it, 
And as the quick ihoughts breathe and glow, 
The flower makes sweet the sonnet! 
We tell the maid it mocks, in hue, 
Her fair and virgin forehead; 
We say her lips’ delicious dew 
The blossom’s balm has borrowed. 
Our sweet appeal, in secret bower, 
We bid her con apart, 
And trace it on as fair a flower, 
Her own unsullied heart. 
’Tis writ with plumes from Cupid’s wing — 
With passion’s kiss we seal it, 
Then free to Zephyr’s care we fling 
Our light and blooming billet! 
Well guarded from blockade and breach, 
Must be that heart unsleeping, 
Such fragrant vows would fail to reach, 
Or fail, when reached, in keeping! 
