Poor little rose, I pity you—

Sweet as Oporto's wind when fruity—

Tortured an evil hour or two,

Just to adorn a wilful beauty.

I know her well, too well, alas!

(Just watch the fairy as she dances.)

She wears my heart—but let that pass;

It's dead: she killed it with her glances.

Your fate, poor rose, is such as mine,—

To be despised when you are faded;

Yet she's an angel—too divine

To be by you or me upbraided.