Come, love, I'll weave a wreath for thee
Of all things rich and fair,
A starry crown of costly gems—
There's nought for thee too rare;
And underneath my coronet
Shall lurk no haunting care.

But gems, though bright, are cold and hard,
Thy head is weary now;
Here rest it on my breast, and fling
Those baubles from thy brow.
I'll twine thy wreath of flowers, love,
They're fair and soft, I trow.

Yet flowers die—the sweetest first—
No fading wreath I'll weave
For thee, my brightest, noblest, best,
On this glad Christmas eve:
When all around is mirth and joy,
I would not have thee grieve.

My poet's brow would well become
The deathless wreath of song,
And well his stately form be seen
Fame's proudest sons among;
But lonely oft, and sad, and chill,
The hearts amid that throng.

In vain I seek a crown for thee
Among earth's choicest things:
Her gems are bright, but, oh! how cold—
Her purest joys have wings.
I'll bind no chaplet on thy brow,
My own belov'd, that stings.

In heaven a fair flower sweetly blooms,
Which never knows decay;
'Tis ever fresh, and pure, and bright,
As on its natal day.
I'll twine thy wreath of that sweet flower—
Love passeth not away.