Hawthorn - The Language of Flowers

Hawthorn.
Flowers white. Berries scarlet.
Hope.

Hope on, hope ever!
Dark o'er us now the clouds of grief are brooding,
Hoarsely the streamlets murmur at our foot;
Bright birds of song, our eager grasp eluding,
Far from our tree of love and retreat.
But oh! not yet, my gentle friend, shall leave us
The fervent hope of sunshine and of joy;
And whatsoe'er of wrong may come to grieve us,
Let there be one thing grief can ne'er destroy-
Hope on, hope ever!