Flowers are such tender things That once cut down they grow no more; But weeds, though cut ten times a day, Usurp the garden as before. Virtue has such feeble health The least exposure strikes it dead While evil, defying heat or chill Is always robust and well-fed. Love must move in quiet ways, Stealing along on padded feet, But hate, swashbuckler, clanks his sword And shoulders down the crowded street. |