Then he proffer’d a myrtle wreath, 
With damask roses fair, 
And took the liberty — only think — 
To arrange it in my hair. ' 
And he prest in my yielding hand, 
The everlasting pea, 
Whose questioning lips of perfume breathed, 
“ Wilt thou go, wilt thou go with me 1” 
Yet we were but children, still, 
And our love, though it seemed so sweet, 
Was well express’d by the types it chose, 
For it pass’d away as fleet. 
Though he brought the laurus-leaf, 
That change's but to die, 
And the amaranth, and the evergreen, 
Yet what did they signify % 
Oft o’er his vaunted love, 
Suspicious moods had power, 
So I put a French marigold in his hat, 
That gaudy jealous flower. 
But the rootless passion shrank 
Like Jonah’s gourd away, 
Till the shivering ice-plant best might mark 
The grades of its chill decay. 
