A woman's love is like the spring
Amid the wild alone;
A burning wild o'er which the wing
Of cloud is seldom thrown;
And blest is he who meets that fount,
Beneath the sultry day;
How gladly should his spirit mount,
How pleasant be his way.

A woman's love is like the rock,
That every tempest braves,
And stands secure amid the shock
Of ocean's wildest waves;
And blest is he to whom repose
Within its shade is given—
The world, with all its cares and woes,
Seems less like earth than heaven.