The Rose[2]

Ay, pluck a jonquil when the May’s a-wing! Or please you with a rose upon the breast, A sweeter violet chosen from the rest, To match your mood with blue caprice of spring-- Leave windy vines a tendril less to swing. Why, what’s a flower? A day’s delight at best, A perfume loved, a faded petal pressed, A whimsey for an hour’s remembering.

But wondrous careful must he draw the rose From jealous earth, who seeks to set anew Deep root, young leafage, with a gardener’s art-- To plant her queen of all his garden close, And make his varying fancy wind and dew, Cloud, rain, and sunshine for one woman’s heart.