  When love is there, one asks not whence he came, Enough to know the wealth he doth bestow; A budding heart blossoms, then bursts the same, Whether in realm of high estate or low. Crimson the flow’r, touched by the life it gives, Rooted in works of faith, love ever lives, Aglow with thrilling warmth of sentiment, Each soul becomes a fount of sweet content. The bloom, crushed, turns to Mother Earth once more, Anew seeketh strength in rising as before; Tho years of healing help to right the wrong, A bleeding heart can never beat as strong. |
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