The wreath you gave me, love, is dead,
The bloom is from the roses fled;
A blight is o'er the myrtle shed,
The violets are withering.
Ah! who that gaz'd upon them now,
Saw each dry leaf, each faded glow,
Could deem them worth the gathering!
The vows you breathed me, love, were dear;
They fell like music on my ear,
But left behind a sigh, a tear—
For they were but deceiving.
And who, that thought upon them now,
Would deem each heartless, broken vow,
Had e'er been worth believing?
Fond dreams, like summer flowers, fall,
And wither'd leaves and thorns are all
They leave their memory to recall,
So quickly have they perished;
And love that could so soon depart,
That open'd but to chill the heart,
Will not be long time cherished.