•21 
How rich is my reward! My gentle Flower, 
I fain would never lose thee; but thou’lt die — 
Droop — wither—pass away like all fair things — 
Like all I ever loved. 
But yet, not lost. 
Not lost, my beautiful; thou wilt but hide 
Thy quiet loveliness while Summer’s sun 
Calls forth the courtiers of his glittering train 
To revel in their gay and festal ’tire; 
When Autumn dims them, and when winter chills. 
Thou wilt lay by thy cloak of russet brown. 
And spring up bright and beautiful once more. 
So when thy fragi’ance breathes its faint perfume. 
And pallid droop thy petals round the stem, 
I will but think thy life one day has spent. 
And hid thee sweet sleep till we meet again. 
