On Presenting a Wild Rose

Plucked on the Sources of the Mississippi

Take thou the rose, though blighted,
Its sweetness is not gone,
And like the heart, though slighted,
In memory it blooms on.

Thy hand its leaves may nourish,
Thy smiles its bloom restore;
So warmed its buds may flourish,
And bloom to life once more.

Yet if they bloom not ever,
These thoughts may life impart
To hopes I ne’er could sever
One moment from my heart.

Oh, then, receive my token,
From far-off northern sky,
That speech, once kindly spoken,
Can never—never die.