Tell me not of the greener mountains,
Far away in other lands,
Nor of "Afric's sunny fountains"
Rolling over "golden sands"—
These few flowers to me recall
Fairer visions than they all!
Strange that things which soonest perish,
Dying oft with close of day,
Memory will most fondly cherish,
When their bloom has passed away—
Storms cannot efface forever
Bounding barks from youth's bright river!
Then, lady, take this idle sonnet,
Fragile though the lines may be;
I'm thinking of a Quaker bonnet,
I wonder if you'll think of me
Next season, when you fold with care
This crumpled leaf to curl your hair!