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The Garland I Send Thee by Thomas Moore
The garland I send thee was culled from those bowers
Where thou and I wandered in long vanished hours;
Not a leaf or a blossom its bloom here displays,
But bears some remembrance of those happy days.
The roses were gathered by that garden gate,
Where our meetings, though early, seemed always too late;
Where ling'ring full oft through a summer-night's moon,
Our partings, though late, appeared always too soon.
The rest were all culled from the banks of that glade,
Wherem watching the sunset, so often we strayed,
And mourned, as the time went, that Love had no power
To bind in his chain even one happy hour.
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