 | Metrical essays |  |
131
STANZAS.
I
Tell me—oh, tell me—ye roses, that restOn the fragrant snow of my love's young breast;
When your beauty the balm of her breath receives,
When her warm lips are prest to your glorious leaves,
When her bright eyes bend o'er you like heaven's pure sky,
Where the azure and pearl strive for mastery:
To you, oh, to you, do her whispers tell
The pleasant thoughts in her soul that dwell?
132
II
To you, oh, to you, do her frequent sighsBreathe of love's bashful secrecies;
Breathe of her young bosom's sweet distress,
Where modesty wars with tenderness:
Flutters her heart half in joy, half in fear,
Crimsons her cheek when my footstep falls near?
Answer, blest flowers—I await your decree—
Her heart and her love—are those treasures for me?
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