Classic Poem

— I THAT tremble at your feet
— — Am a rose;
— Nothing dewier or more sweet
— — Buds or blows;
He that plucked me, he that threw me
Breathed in fire his whole soul through me.

— How the cold air is infused
— — With the scent!
— See, this satin leaf is bruised —
— — Bruised and bent,
Lift me, lift the wounded blossom,
Soothe it at your rosier bosom!

— Frown not with averted eyes!
— — Joy's a flower
— That is born a god, and dies
— — In an hour.
Take me, for the Summer closes,
And your life is but a rose's.