Classic Poem

‘I am wreathing a garland for wintry hours’,
Thus whispered a Youth to his mistress the Dove,
‘The verses you pen are the sweetest of flowers,
Their fragrance delights me—it breathes so of Love!’

‘Yourself is the Sun whose warm radiance divine
Gave life to those flowers’, cried the fond little Dove;
‘Their incense will rise while that Sun deigns to shine,
They never can wither while cheered by your Love!’