On a Theme in the Greek Anthology
Thy petals yet are closely curled,Rose of the world,Around their scented, golden core;Nor yet has Summer purpled o’erThy tender clusters that beginTo swell withinThe dewy vine-leaves’ early screenOf 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 smoulderingShall be the conflagration soonWhose paths are strewnWith torment of blanched lips and eyesThat agonize.