Thy petals yet are closely curled,
Rose of the world,
Around their scented, golden core;
Nor yet has Summer purpled o’er
Thy tender clusters that begin
To swell within
The dewy vine-leaves’ early screen
Of sheltering green.
O hearts that are Love’s helpless prey,
While yet you may,
Fly, ere the shaft is on the string!
The fire that now is smouldering
Shall be the conflagration soon
Whose paths are strewn
With torment of blanched lips and eyes
That agonize.