I love those roses when they rise,

From joy, from anger, or surprise;

I love the kind, attentive zeal,

So prompt to know what others feel,

The mildness which can ne'er reprove,

But in the sweetest tones of love—

All this, my Emily, is true,

But I love more in loving you!

The self-command which can sustain,

In silence, weariness and pain;

The transport at a friend's success,

Which has not words or power to bless,

But, by a sudden, starting tear,

Appears more precious, more sincere—

All this, my Emily, is true,

And this I love in loving you!