Which a vine and a maple together made;

’Twas blooming away in a dress of white,

With eyes of a blue transparent light.

I knelt at its shrine,

And this heart of mine

Drank in the fragrance as one drinks wine.

Then I said, “Sweet flower, this cooling shade

With the summer weather will dim and fade,

There’s a place in my heart—a cozy room—

Where you may nestle and grow and bloom.”

Thus I wooed the flower,

In this shady bower,

And lovers we were that self-same hour.

I carried it home, I pruned it with care,

I gave it the sun and the morning air.

The honey bees came its dew to sip,

But I drove them away with pouting lip;

For I loved my flower,

And with jealous power

I banished the bees from our curtained bower.

A butterfly came on wings of lace,

And tried to fan my blossom’s face;

But I brushed it away with cruel hands,

And tore from its wings the velvet bands;

Then I kissed my flower;

But a summer shower

Burst from the clouds with mesmeric power.

Then the pale little blossom heaved a sigh,

And opened a blue and timid eye

To thank the cloud as it did in the shade,

I slammed the shutters with curses of doom;

I made it dark as a dungeon room,

Then I hurried away like a thief in the night;

But I strolled again in the warm sunlight,

And another flower

From Fashion’s own bower

I culled, and nursed it only an hour.

It proved but a weed with a gaudy bloom,

And a poisonous odor filled my room.

So I turned once more to my wildwood flower,

That I locked in my heart that sinful hour,

When the angel of love,

To its mansion above,

Had fluttered away like a wounded dove.

How softly I turned the key in my heart;

One moment I faltered—the door swung apart—

A faint, sweet essence, like heliotrope bloom,

Was sick’ning my senses; I moved through the room

With a staggering tread,

With a brain reeling head,

And swooned there—a murd’rer—my flower was—dead.