17 
Oh were I from each bud that blows 
To choose meet type for beauty’s brows, 
I’d turn from lily and from rose 
To thee, sweet flower, 
For that thy leaves in springing close, 
Thy life’s an hour. 
Yes — whether singing to her lute, 
Or listening love’s beguiling suit, 
Or when enlivening harp and flute 
Invite the dance; 
Thou, frail one, eloquently mute, 
Should’st woo her glance. 
For whilst upon her bosom white 
Thy leaves so perishingly bright 
Dropt one by one — perchance she might 
Read beauty’s doom; 
And learn how e’en a breath may blight 
Youth’s opening bloom. 
c 
