 | The Shepherd's Garden |  |
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LIPS AND ROSES.
Red roses of whose sweets were made
The joys with Time foregone,
Whose sharpened spines beneath them laid
Did sting me to the bone,
Can ye rebloom those hours again,
Compact of happiness and pain?
No, darlings, no:
Ye cannot so:
Ye come and go in vain.
The joys with Time foregone,
Whose sharpened spines beneath them laid
Did sting me to the bone,
Can ye rebloom those hours again,
Compact of happiness and pain?
No, darlings, no:
Ye cannot so:
Ye come and go in vain.
Empurpled lips besprent with dew,
Cool morning's tender boon,
Must those first kisses laid on you
Consume away at noon?
In vain I would call back again
My languished hours of joy and pain;
Ye whisper, no;
That I but so
Waste all my soul in vain.
Cool morning's tender boon,
Must those first kisses laid on you
Consume away at noon?
In vain I would call back again
My languished hours of joy and pain;
Ye whisper, no;
That I but so
Waste all my soul in vain.
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