In the South is Love’s land, Where the roses blow,
Where the Summer lingers, Fearless of the snow.
There no Winter chills it, So its life is long—
Gentle breezes fan it, Age but makes it strong.
Nay, fresh roses wither Where the sun is hot;
Not in torrid regions Blooms forget-me-not.
Love’s a tender blossom, Which the Winter chills,
But too eager Summer With its kisses kills.
