TO P****

Fair was thy bloom, when first I met

  Thy summer’s maiden-blossom;

And thou art fair and lovely yet,

  And dearer to my bosom.

O thou wert once a wilding flower,

  All garden flowers excelling,

And still I bless the happy hour

  That led me to thy dwelling.

Though nursed by field, and brook, and wood,

  And wild in every feature,

Spring ne’er unsealed a fairer bud,

  Nor found a blossom sweeter.

Of all the flowers the Spring hath met,

  And it has met with many,

Thou art to me the fairest yet,

  And loveliest, of any.

Though ripening summers round thee bring

  Buds to thy swelling bosom,

That wait the cheering smiles of spring

  To ripen into blossom;

These buds shall added blessings be,

  To make our loves sincerer:

For as their flowers resemble thee,

  They’ll make thy memory dearer.

And though thy bloom shall pass away,

  By winter overtaken,

Thoughts of the past will charms display,

  And many joys awaken.

When time shall every sweet remove,

  And blight thee on my bosom--

Let beauty fade--to me, my love,

  Thou’lt ne’er be out of blossom!