Fair girl, thy rosebud heart rests warm
Within life's summer bowers!
Nor blasts of winter's angry storm,
Nor April's changeful showers,
Its leaves have shed or bowed the stem;
But gracefully it stands—
A gem in beauty's diadem,
Unplucked by ruthless hands.
Thus may it ripen into bloom,
Fresh as the fragrant sod,
And yield its beauty and perfume
An offering pure to God.
Sweet as the poetry of heaven,
Bright as her evening star,
Be all thy life in music given,
While beauty fills each bar.
Lynn, Mass., December 8, 1866.