Page:Juvenile Forget Me Not 1837.pdf/4

160

She doth bid the wind impart Its own freshness to the heart. Every flower around is rife With fine poetry for life: Not a perfumed wreath but brings Some true feelings on its wings. On that rosy child await Rank and sway, and wealth and state; Sad, too often, is their dower, Much they need a softening power.

Let with worldlier airs be blent Some diviner element; Let love, poetry, and thought, Be to that fair infant brought; Let the face of nature be Dearest to its infancy; And all after life will keep Treasures from that woodland sleep.