Say, what impels me, pure and spotless flower,
To view thee with a secret sympathy?
--Is there some living spirit shrined in thee?
That, as thou bloom'st within my humble bower,
Endows thee with some strange, mysterious
power,
Waking high thoughts?--As there perchance
might be
Some angel-form of truth and purity,
Whose hallowed presence shared my lonely hour?
--Yes, lovely flower, 'tis not thy virgin glow,
Thy petals whiter than descending snow,
Nor all the charms thy velvet folds display;
'Tis the soft image of some beaming mind,
By grace adorn'd, by elegance refin'd,
That o'er my heart thus holds its silent sway.
_The Winter's Wreath._
* * * * *