 | Poems |  |
43
ROUND .
FOR MUSIC
Remember, love, the rosy flower
I promis'd thee in early morn,
Which, when we sought at evening hour,
We found had fled, and left a thorn!
I promis'd thee in early morn,
Which, when we sought at evening hour,
We found had fled, and left a thorn!
Ah let it, dearest, teach thee this,
In pity to the youth who grieves,—
The floweret is the joy we miss—
The thorn, the sharp regret it leaves.
In pity to the youth who grieves,—
The floweret is the joy we miss—
The thorn, the sharp regret it leaves.
| Poems | |