To keep it in sweet guardianship,
Or it must droop and die;
Requiring equal love and care,
Even more delicate than fair.

I cannot paint to thee the charm
Which thou hast wrought on me;
Thy laugh, so like the wild bird's song
In the first bloom-touch'd tree.
You spoke of lovely Italy,
And of its thousand flowers;
Your lips had caught the music breath
Amid its summer bow'rs.
And can it be a form like thine
Has braved the stormy Apennine?

I'm standing now with one white rose
Where silver waters glide
I've flung that white rose on the stream--
How light it breasts the tide!
The clear waves seem as if they loved
So beautiful a thing;
And fondly to the scented leaves
The laughing sunbeams cling.
A summer voyage--fairy freight;--
And such, sweet Lady, be thy fate!"

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