To ----, with flowers
Go, ye sweet messengers,
To that dim-lighted room,
Where lettered wisdom from the walls
Sheds a delightful gloom;
Where sits in thought profound,
One in the noon of life,
Whose flashing eye and fevered brow
Tell of the inward strife;
Who in those wells of lore,
Seeks for the pearls of truth,
And to Ambition's fever dream
Gives his repose and youth.
To him, sweet ministers,
Ye shall a lesson teach, --
Go in your fleeting loveliness
More eloquent than speech.
Tell him in laurel wreaths
No perfume e'er is found,
And that upon a crown of thorns
Those leaves are ever bound.
Thoughts fresh as your own hues
Bear ye to that abode, --
Speak of the sunshine and the sky,
Of Nature and of God.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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