by Frances Sargent Locke Osgood
Let your summer friends go by
With the summer weather!
Hearts there are that will not fly,
Tho' the storm should gather.
Summer love to fortune clings,
From the wreck it saileth,
Like the bee, that spreads its wings
When the honey faileth.
Rich the soil where weeds appear; --
Let their false bloom perish!
Flowers there are, more rare and dear,
That you still may cherish.
Flowers of feeling, pure and warm,
Hearts that cannot wither,
These for thee shall bide the storm,
As the sunny weather.