Chapter I

GIVE not to me the wreath of green,
The blooming vase of flowers;
They breathe of joy which once hath been,
Of gone and faded hours!
I cannot love the rose; though rich,
Its beauty will not last:
Give me--give _me_ the bloom o'er which
The early blight hath passed!
The yellow buds--give _them_ to rest
On my cold brow and joyless breast,
When life is failing fast!