Pale flower, that by this stone
Sweetenest the air alone,
While round thee falls the snow
And the rude wind doth blow.
What thought doth make thee pine
Pale Flower, can I divine?
Say, does this trouble thee
That all things fickle be?
The wind that buffets so
Was kind an hour ago.
The sun, a cloud doth hide,
Cheered thee at morning tide.
The busy pleasuring bee
Sought thee for company.
The little sparrows near
Sang thee their ballads clear.
The maples on thy head
Their spicy blossoms shed.
Because the storm made dumb
The wild bees booming hum;
Because for shivering
The sparrows cannot sing;
Is this the reason why
Thou look’st so woefully?
To-morrow’s laughing sun
Will cheer thee, pallid one;
To-morrow will bring back
The gay bee on his track,
Bursting thy cloister dim
With his wild roistering.
Canst thou not wait the morrow,
That rids thee of thy sorrow?
Art thou too desolate
To smile at any fate?
Then there is naught for thee
But Death’s delivery.
The Roses, May 4, 1853.