Impromptu Lines,
ADDRESSED TO MISS F. A. L., ON RECEIVING FROM HER SOME FLOWERS WHEN CONFINED BY ILLNESS.
Ye tell me not of birds and bees,
Not of the summer’s murmuring trees,
Not of the streams and woodland bowers—
A sweeter tale is yours, fair flowers!
Glad tidings to my couch ye bring,
Of one still bright, still flowing spring—
A fount of kindness ever new,
In a friend’s heart, the good and true.