A Tender Flower

There is a tender flower,
Yet found in every clime,
That decks the rudest bower,
Nor stays for place or time:
In caves or desert sands,
Unblest with sun or shower,
Wherever life expands,
Is found this tender flower.

Where storms with keenest breath
Bids stranger-flowers decay —
Where suns e'en shun its birth,
It is content to stay:
In sunshine and in gloom,
As if 'twere Sorrow's dower,
In Grief's lap it will bloom,
Or die, a lovely flower.

Within life's wilderness,
This fond and tender flower
Doth every bosom bless,
And garlands Sorrow's bower.
Rude Falsehood may despise
Its bloom, when in its power,
And idle themes devise,
To mock this injured flower.

Yet Truth hath long agreed
To call it first of flowers,
Though treated like a weed
Too oft in Folly's bowers.
On earth it loves to dwell,
Though blest with heavenly power,
And sure I need not tell
That LOVE'S the lauded flower.