On A Theme In The Greek Anthology

Thy petals yet are closely curled,

Rose of the world,

Around their scented, golden core;

Nor yet has Summer purpled o'er

Thy tender clusters that begin

To swell within

The dewy vine-leaves' early screen

Of sheltering green.

O hearts that are Love's helpless prey,

While yet you may,

Fly, ere the shaft is on the string!

The fire that now is smouldering

Shall be the conflagration soon

Whose paths are strewn

With torment of blanched lips and eyes

That agonize.