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Be not too proud, my little haughty moon,
Nor to my love deny so small a boon;
My heart is heavy, love can make it light—
Fair as a flower—and faded just as soon!
What though thy body like a moon be fair,
Tulips thy cheeks, and like a bower thy hair,—
Strange that the builder of the heavens should deign
To paint thy little phantom on the air!
Vain little breath of sweet rose-coloured dust,
For such as thou Death hath a fearful lust,—
See, where he tears the rose's veil aside,
Kisses and shatters her with one wild gust.
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