Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Guelder Rose

The Guelder Rose.

Thou full-blown comely creature, Say, what is thy sudden stound,That flushes thy cheek's white feature, In the guise of Love's own wound!

Wert thou but of human fashion, Like me, with a burning heart,I'd say, 'twas the tint of passion, Yet cold as ice thou art.

"I may have no heart within me, I may be ice-cold quite;Yet joy would a cheek-flush win me, As longing doth paint me white.

"To earth, my fond mother, I'm fleeting, And death is to lead the way;I think of his yesternight's greeting, And blush for delight to-day."