105
ANSWER.
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.
