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To My Father

There is a flower that loves to curl,
Its tendrils round the blasted tree,
And all its brightest gems unfurl,
Where winter frowns, most drearily--
And often is thy beauty seen,
Enwreath'd with snow--sweet evergreen.

There is a flow'r thats loves to bind,
The limb that bow'd beneath the blast,
And kindly round its fragments wind
Till all the tempest's rage is past--
And sweetly does the mourner lean,
On thy kind arm--sweet evergreen.--

Thou windest not thy gentle stem
Around the branch that needs thee not,--
Tis not thy pride to honor them,
By whom thou soon would'st be forgot.--
Oh no--thy smile is oft'ner seen
Where weep's the opprest--sweet evergreen

And O, where like the blasted tree,
My Fathers verdure fades away;
My greenness shall his beauty be,
My love shall be his prop and stay;
And still like thee will I be seen,
Affection's flow'er--sweet evergreen.
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