WEET MARY, maid of San Andreas,
Upon her natal day,
Procured an album, double-gilt,
Entitled, "The Bouquet."
 
But what its purpose was beyond
Its name, she could not guess;
And so between its gilded leaves
The flowers he gave she'd press.
 
Yet blame her not, poetic youth!
Nor deem too great the wrong;
She knew not Hawthorne's bloom, nor loved
Macaulay-flowers of song.
 
Her hymn-book was the total sum
Of her poetic lore,
And, having read through Dr. Watts,
She did not ask for Moore.
 
But when she ope'd her book again,
How great was her surprise
To find the leaves on either side
Stained deep with crimson dyes.
 
And in that rose -- his latest gift --
A shapeless form she views;
Its fragrance sped, its beauty fled,
And vanished all its dews.
 
O Mary, maid of San Andreas!
Too sad was your mistake--
Yet one, methinks, that wiser folk
Are very apt to make.
 
Who 'twixt these leaves would fix the shapes
That love and truth assume,
Will find they keep, like Mary's rose,
The stain, and not the bloom.
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