In bower and garden, rich and rare,
There's many a cherished flower,
Whose beauty fades, whose fragrance flits,
Within the flitting hour.
Not so the simple forest leaf,
Unprized, unnoted lying,
The same, thro' all its little life,
It changes, but in dying.
Be such, and only such, my friend,
Once mine, and mine for ever:
And here's a hand, to clasp in thine,
That shall desert thee, never.
And thou, be such, my gentle love,
Time, chance, the world, defying;
And take, 'tis all I have, a heart,
That changes, but in dying.