From my summer alcove, which the stars this morn

"From my summer alcove, which the stars this morn With lucid pearls o'erspread, I have gathered these jessamines, thus to adorn With a wreath thy graceful head. From thy bosom and mouth they, as flowers, ere death, Ask a purer white and a sweeter breath.

Their blossoms a host of bees, alarmed, Watched over on jealous wing; Hoarse trumpeters seemed they all, and armed Each bee with a diamond sting: I tore them away, but each flower I tore Has cost me a wound which smarteth sore.

Now as I these jessamine flowers entwine, A gift for thy vagrant hair, I must have, from those honey-sweet lips of thine, A kiss for each sting I bear: It is just that the blooms I bring thee home, Be repaid by sweets from the golden comb."