A BOUQUET

By Edward Smyth Jones

A blossom pink, a blossom blue,

Make all there is in love so true.

‘ Tis fit, methinks, my heart to move,

To give it thee, sweet girl, I love!

Now, take it, dear, this morn and wear

A wreath of beauty in thy hair;

Think on it, when from bliss we part —

The emblem of my wooing heart!