Page:Poems Rossetti.djvu/189

Whether she flush in love's summer
 Or in its winter grow pale,
Whether she flaunt her beauty
 Or hide it away in a veil,
Be she red or white,
 And stand she erect or bowed,
Time will win the race he runs with her
 And hide her away in a shroud.

MAY.

I CANNOT tell you how it was;
But this I know: it came to pass
Upon a bright and breezy day
When May was young; ah, pleasant May
As yet the poppies were not born
Between the blades of tender corn;
The last eggs had not hatched as yet,
Nor any bird forgone its mate.

I cannot tell you what it was;
But this I know: it did but pass.
It passed away with sunny May,
With all sweet things it passed away,
And left me old, and cold, and grey.