Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/To the Passion Flower

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To the Passion Flower.
What though not thine the rose's brilliant glow,  Or odour of the gifted violet,  Or dew with which the lily's cheek is wet;Though thine would seem the pallid streaks of woe,The drops that from the fount of sorrows flow.  Thy purple tints of shame; though strange appear,  The types of torture thou art doomed to wear;Yet blooms for me no hue like thine below,  For from thee breathes the odour of a name,Whose sweetness melts my soul and dims my eyes;  And in thy mystic leaves of woe and shameI read a tale to which my heart repliesIn voiceless throbbing and devoted sighs;  Death's darkest agony and mercy's claim,And love's last words of grief are written in thy dyes.

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