The rose she honoured nodded down:
His comrades burst with spite:
Poor fool! he knew not he was doomed
To barely last the night.
Are hearts to her but as that flower,
The plaything of a careless hour,
To lacerate and never spare
All in that garden fair?
I held her hand that I might trace
Her fortune in its palm:
A bolder moonbeam than the rest
Crept up and kissed her arm,
And, kissing once, was loth to leave,
So hid himself within the sleeve
That clasped the lithe arm, white and bare,
All in that garden fair.
I traced her fortune: love and wealth—
Though life, alas! was short.
But will that wealth be bought with love?
Or love with wealth be bought?
I know not: knowing only this—
Her hand seemed waiting for a kiss:
I longed to, but I did not dare,
All in that garden fair.
