Classic Poem

I have a beauteous garden,
And all the summer through
'Tis rich with the odour of broad-blown flowers
That laugh with the sunshine, and weep with the showers
And the sweet little birds sit and sing there too
The summer through.

But ah! then comes the winter
With the snow and the stormy blast;
And all my beautiful flowers are dead,
And the snow wraps over their cold, cold bed,
And the birds to a brighter land have past
From the stormy blast.

I have another garden,
A garden dearer still,
But here are no birds and no rich perfume
Of flowers without number in freshest bloom,
But one little blossom, and, name what you will,
This is dearer still.

The tender little blossom
It blooms by itself apart;
Through the warmth of summer and winter's snow
'Tis blooming alike; never fades, ah no!
For this dear little flower, O Love, thou art,
And the garden, — my heart!