A Mood

Love's a flower, is born and broken,

Plucked apace — and hugged apart.

Evening comes, it clings — poor token —

Dead and dry, on lover's heart.

Love's the rhyme of a summer minute

Woven close like hum of flies;

Sob of wind, and meaning in it

Dies away, as summer dies.

Love's a shimmery morning bubble

Puffed all gay from pipe of noon;

Spun aloft on breath of trouble —

Bursts in air — is gone — too soon!