THE CYPRESS AND MARIGOLD. 
77 
O sorrow ! 
Why dost borrow 
Hearts’ lightness from the merriment of May P 
A lover would not tread 
A cowslip on the head, 
Though he should dance from eve till peep of day; 
Nor any drooping flower. 
Held sacred for thy bower, 
Wherever he may sport himself and play. 
Keats. 
