html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }Icould not wish that in thy bosom aught
Should e'er one moment's transient pain awaken,
Yet can't regret that thou—forgive the thought—
As flowers when shaken
Will yield their sweetest fragrance to the wind,
Should, ruffled thus, betray thy heavenly mind.
The lilies faintly to the roses yield,
As on thy thoughtful cheek they straggling vie
(Who would not strive upon so sweet a field
To win the mastery?),
And thoughts are in thy speaking eyes reveal'd,
Pure as the fount the prophet's rod unseal'd.