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21
How rich is my reward! My gentle Flower,
I fain would never lose thee; but thou'lt die—
Droop—wither—pass away like all fair things—
Like all I ever loved.
But yet, not lost,
Not lost, my beautiful; thou wilt but hide
Thy quiet loveliness while Summer's sun
Calls forth the courtiers of his glittering train
To revel in their gay and festal 'tire:
When Autumn dims them, and when winter chills,
Thou wilt lay by thy cloak of russet brown,
And spring up bright and beautiful once more.
So when thy fragrance breaths its faint perfume,
And pallid droop thy petals round the stem,
I will but think thy life one day has spent,
And bid thee, sweet, sleep till we meet again.
