To the Rose in her hair.

Poor little rose, I pity you —

Sweet as Oporto's wind when fruity —

Tortured an evil hour or two,

Just to adorn a wilful beauty.

I know her well, too well, alas!

( Just watch the fairy as she dances. )

She wears my heart — but let that pass;

It's dead: she killed it with her glances.

Your fate, poor rose, is such as mine,—

To be despised when you are faded;

Yet she's an angel — too divine

To be by you or me upbraided.