  WOULD God I were the tender apple-blossom, Floating and falling from the twisted bough, To lie and faint within your silken bosom, As that does now! Or would I were a little burnished apple For you to pluck me, gliding by so cold, While sun and shade your robe of lawn will dapple, Your hair’s spun gold. Yea, would to God I were among the roses That lean to kiss you as you float between! While on the lowest branch a bud uncloses To touch you, Queen! Nay, since you will not love, would I were growing A happy daisy in the garden path; That so your silver foot might press me going, Even unto death! |
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