The song of the rose

The Rose of Spring forth venturing

Too soon to trust the zephyr with her worth,

Her crimson smiles and fragrant wiles

May waste instead upon the piercing North.

For balmy blisses, his icy kisses

Fall fast and faster upon her head;

While, one by one, with woe foredone,

She weeps, and weeps away her petals red.

Ye maidens fair, now have a care

How ye too dare that stricken rose's fate!

O, bide in bud, lest frost and flood

Mar your sweet beauties with as sudden hate.

For she who grieves that her gay leaves

Unfold not sooner in the Summer sun,

And tempts her fate, shall find too late

Love over-rash may into ruin run.