To ****, With Flowers: Poem by Anne Charlotte Lynch Botta

Go, ye sweet messengers,
To that dim-lighted room,
Where lettered wisdom from the walls
Sheds a delightful gloom;

Where sits in thought profound,
One in the noon of life,
Whose flashing eye and fevered brow
Tell of the inward strife;

Who in those wells of lore,
Seeks for the pearls of truth,
And to Ambition's fever dream
Gives his repose and youth.

To him, sweet ministers,
Ye shall a lesson teach, -
Go in your fleeting loveliness
More eloquent than speech.

Tell him in laurel wreaths
No perfume e'er is found,
And that upon a crown of thorns
Those leaves are ever bound.

Thoughts fresh as your own hues
Bear ye to that abode, -
Speak of the sunshine and the sky,
Of Nature and of God.

Analysis of this poem