Anemone, Field - The Language of Flowers

Anemone, Field.
Sickness.

Life's frosts thou art too frail to bear,
And in its storms wouldst perish;
A floweret Love alone should wear,
And on his bosom cherish.

Love, like a rock, should firmly stand,
And hang its shelter o'er thee;
While only zephyrs soft and bland
Dispense their sweets around thee.