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.