Poem: “To ****, With Flowers” by Anne Charlotte Lynch Botta

Download PDF

Go, ye sweet messengers,
To that dim-lighted room,
Where lettered wisdom from the walls
Sheds a delightful gloom;

Where sits in thought profound,
One in the noon of life,
Whose flashing eye and fevered brow
Tell of the inward strife;

Who in those wells of lore,
Seeks for the pearls of truth,
And to Ambition’s fever dream
Gives his repose and youth.

To him, sweet ministers,
Ye shall a lesson teach,—
Go in your fleeting loveliness,
More eloquent than speech.

Tell him in laurel wreaths
No perfume e’er is found,
And that upon a crown of thorns
Those leaves are ever bound.

Thoughts fresh as your own hues
Bear ye to that abode,—
Speak of the sunshine and the sky,
Of Nature and of God.

If you liked this article, subscribe , put likes, write comments!

Share on social networks

Visit us on Facebook or Twitter