ROSEBUD, MOSS 
Silent Love. 
Ah! let our love be still a folded flower, 
A pure, moss rose-bud, blushing to be seen, 
Hoarding its balm and beauty for that hour 
When souls may meet without the clay between! 
Let not a breath of passion dare to blow 
Its tender, timid, clinging leaves apart! 
Let not the sunbeam, with too ardent glow, 
Profane the dewy freshness at its heart! 
Ah! keep it folded like a sacred thing! 
With tears and smiles its bloom and fragrance nurse 
Still let the modest veil around it cling, 
Nor with rude touch its pleading sweetness curse. 
Be thou content, as I, to know , not see, 
The glowing life, the treasured wealth within— 
To feel our spirit-flower still fresh and free, 
And guard its blush, its smile, from shame and sin! 
Ah! keep it holy! once the veil withdrawn— 
Once the rose blooms—its balmy soul will fly, 
As fled of old in sadness, yet in scorn, 
Th’ awakened god from Psyche’s daring eye! 
F. S. 0, 
