Classic Poem

CAPRICE .

The rose is dead in my Lady's bower;
The love is dead in my Lady's heart!
The rose was only a summer flower,
Born to die in a summer hour —
To yield its life to the passionate shower
That tore its radiant leaves apart.

The rose-tree will blossom again, I know,
But what care I for to-morrow's flower?
Some idle wind will capriciously blow;
The rain's wild feet will trample it; oh,
Pluck it who will! for myself I go
And leave the rose in my Lady's bower!