  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. |
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