THE SPRIG OF LAVENDER.
‘t is a faded sprig of Lavender, in nowise worth the keeping,
Yet I prize it above other things, though valueless it be;
For she’s far off that gave it me, where clouds are calmly sleeping
All summer through, above the hills so very dear to me.
The little hand that gave it, with the tiny fairy fingers,
With touches imperceptible has stolen all my heart;
Oh! frankly does she offer it, and oftentimes it lingers
Right lovingly within my own, where’er we meet or part.
Yes, she is fair and gentle, and her voice is low and tender
As the whisper of a summer wind, or distant streams at play;
And may good angels guard her well, and sunniest moments send her,
Will ever be my prayer for her, when I am far away.
And thoughts of her bring thoughts of home, and all I’ve left behind me;
And then my thoughts go wandering in the mansions of the Past,
And little is the Lavender then needed to remind me
How happy hours, like summer flowers, must fade and perish fast.
And yet I keep the Lavender, and when again I meet her,
I’ll show her how I’ve kept it, and she’ll turn away her head;
And blushing, say I’m foolish; but can anything be sweeter
Than to see the blushes rising o’er her cheek so rosy-red?