Out of the bud the bright rose bloweth,
And all the soul of her sweetness goeth
Abroad to the sun and wind and rain;
But ah! ah never, in any weather,
Can she fold up her leaves together,
And close herself in a bud again!
But if the sun and wind be sweeter,
And summer’s beautiful dress completer
Because of the rose’s graceful part,
Were it not wiser far and better
Than, bound and locked in her fair green fetter,
To die with an untouched virgin heart?