Makes sunrise jealous of her rosy red,
When dawn upon the dew of dawning glows;
Graces and Loves within her breast repose,
The woods are faint with the sweet odour shed,
Till rains and heavy suns have smitten dead
The languid flower and the loose leaves unclose, -

So this, the perfect beauty of our days,
When heaven and earth were vocal of her praise,
The fates have slain, and her sweet soul reposes:
And tears I bring, and sighs, and on her tomb
Pour milk, and scatter buds of many a bloom,
That, dead as living, Rose may be with roses.



THE POET'S APOLOGY



No, the Muse has gone away,
Does not haunt me much to-day.
Everything she had to say
Has been said!
'Twas not much at any time
She could hitch into a rhyme,
Never was the Muse sublime,
Who has fled!

Any one who takes her in