“A FFECTION never was wasted,”
I've read in a poet's hymn,
But they who the bitterness tasted
Say that's but a poet's dream.

Affection is wasted often,
And though its streams may return,
They may come as waters to soften,
Or lava to blast and burn.

And how can a flowret blossom,
Or summer herbage grow,
In the land o'er whose arid bosom
The molten streamlets flow?

“Affection never was wasted:”
Alas! and would it were not!
Then woman on sweets would be feasted
In palace, and hall, and cot.

Souls cradled by wrong into malice
Would glow with love Divine,
And many a water-filled chalice
Would overflow with wine.

How many a lovely blossom
Has wasted its fragrant breath,
To sweeten the careless bosom
On which it drooped in death!

When it lay broken and shattered,
By the way-side left to die,
Its beautiful leaves all scattered
As the winds blew wild and high,

Not a breath of its once sweet perfume
Could wake it to life again,
Nor will aught to the aching heart come
Of its wasted love but pain.