  ’Twas only a sprig of white jessamine, That came in a letter she wrote; But I value it more than the costliest vine Whose tendrils o’er marble-carved trellis-work twine: ’Twas worn at my darling one’s throat. A throat that encages the nightingale’s trill, And sweetens each silvery note, And I think as I hear, in a rapturous thrill, Her voice, whose volume can heaven’s dome fill, That the angels have lent her a throat. More sweet than exotics that Fashion dupes wear As through the gay ballroom they float! In the leaves of my Bible I laid it with care, More sacredly dear than a buried friend’s hair Since worn at my darling one’s throat! July, 1870. |
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