True Love.
True Love's an exotic, the heart is the soil
Where implanted, it firmly grows on,
In the pride of its beauty, diffusing its smile,
When the weed, sensuality's gone.
And should the cold touch of indifference come,
To attempt its removal, you'll find
(It may wrest the plant from its favorite home,)
But 'twill leave naught but ruin behind!
When 'whelmed in deep sorrow, you find that it's dead,
And that all the atonement left here,
(With a heart, where a thorn hath been planted instead)
Is, to water its grave with a tear!
When remorse shall have lit the slow fire of regret,
And the pride of life's garden is flown,
And the seeds of despair have commingled and met
In the spot where the plant should have grown,—
How dreadful, on memory's tablet to view,
The sad record of happiness gone!
And to feel, that with different treatment from you,
The plant might have still flourished on!
