I culled them fresh on the mountain side,
Where they blossomed wild and free,
They were emblems in the fair noontideFix this text
Of my thoughts, dear friend, for thee.
But e'er they are thine they'll droop and fade,
And the fairest first will die,
And each fervent wish for the unsaid
Will waste in a weary sigh.
For they spring fresh as the mountain flower
From the heart as pure and free
To my lips, and die for a word of power,
That would tell their depths to thee.
But like the flowers on the mountain side
That bloom through the wind and rain.
I will constant prove, whate'er betide,
Dear friend, though our paths are twain.
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