The Wreath Poem by Edward Henry Bickersteth

O! bring me flow'rs, and I will wreathe
A chaplet for thy hair,
And as I twine each bud't will breathe
Some emblem of my fair.
The primrose shall proclaim thy birth,
So fairly pale and weak,
Just peeping from its parent earth,
A type of thy young cheek.
I'll hie me to the shade where grows
The modest violet flow'r,
Like thy sweet eyes its beauty glows,
Impearl'd with morning show'r.
And as I gaze, methinks thy veins
Have drank cerulean blue,
And lingering still those tender stains
Enchant the gazer's view.
The lily too I there can see,—
Her virgin white is thine,—
So young and fair, and frail, like thee,
I'll offer at thy shrine.
The rose I've gather'd from the thorn,
Her maiden blush I'll bear—
To where the lily will not scorn,
A place with thee to share.
And o'er my lov'd one kisses fling,
And bid her blush appear;
Yet ah! forbear to leave a sting,
Or wake the slumb'ring tear.
That fount will gush ere spring is gone,
Oh! could I check its flow;
Its source is where the flow'rs are born,
And where the violets blow.
How clear those rills in childhood's hour
Run rippling in the sun,
Ere passion's storms begin to low'r,
Ere life is half begun.
Soon shall they start from caverns deep
A flood—how wildly strong—
Where purest gems are known to sleep,
Where echo holds her song.
Ah! there shall passion's sting be found—
And bitter fruits be there,
And weeping cypress all around
No bud of promise bear.
And should you seek to find that spring,
The secret I'll impart,—
The fount where love and grief will cling,—
That fount is Woman's Heart.