Linden

Linden

There are blossoms that make us weak
And some that make us yearn
Alas, none of them can even speak
To the Linden's scent in turn

Delicate and sweet it wafts
On early summer's gossamer wings
Inhaling as the perfume lofts
The senses fill with heav'nly things

Your branches span reaching high above,
Rooted firmly in the ground with love;
Gifts exceeding fragrance alone,
Aromatic tea from your blooms we hone.