DROPS FROM FLORA’S CUP. 65 
For that ne’er tells of what has been, 
But warns me what I soon shall be; 
It looks not back on pleasure’s scenes, 
But points unto futurity. 
I love thee not, thou simple flower, 
For thou art gay and I am lone; • 
Thy beauty died with childhood’s hour — 
The hcart’s-ease from my path has gone. 
— Cupid’s fiery shaft 
Quenched in the chaste beams of the watery moon; 
And the imperial vot’ress passed on, 
In maiden meditation fancy-free. 
Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell; 
It fell upon a little western flower, — 
Before, milk-white; now purple with love’s 
wounds, 
And maidens call it love-in-idleness. 
Fetch me that flower! 
Shakspeare. 
