Deep in a yew-sequestered grove 
I sat and wept my heart away; 
A child came by at close of day 
With eyes as sweet as new-born love. 

He came from sun-bleached meadows where 
High on the hedge the topmost rose 
Curtsies to every wind that blows. 
A wanton of the summer air. 

The sunset aureoled his brow, 
Kindling the roses in his hand, 
And by my side I saw him stand 
To offer me his rose-red bough: 

Take back thy gift--I sighed forlorn, 
And showed where like the yew's red seed, 
My blood had trickled, bead on bead, 
From wounds made by his cruel thorn. 

He smiled and said:--Nay, take my Rose; 
You know, when all is said and done, 
There's not a joy beneath the sun 
Worth lovers' joys but lovers' woes.