Love’s Year Poem by John William Inchbold

There is no time without its flower of love!
Does violet go, and red rose pass away?
Do thrush and lark forget their early lay?
Is deep blue tempered in the sky above?—
The violet has its russet casket still,
The rose its fiery apple autumn crowned,
Sweet music may be caught from every sound;
The grey skies harmonize with grove and hill:—
In passing on to heaven the road of love,
A day may take from burning heat to snow,
Where sapphire stars transformed to flowrets bloom,
The sunset kiss on Alp a world might move:—
Thy breath can now make coldest blood to flow,
And snatch the dying captive from the tomb.