CISTUS! whose fragile flower Waits but the vesper hour To droop and fall, Smoothen thy petals now The Floral Fates allow ... And why so ruffled in fresh youth are all? Thou breathest on my breast, 'We are but like the rest Of our whole family: Ruffled we are, 'tis true, Through life; but are not you? ... Without our privilege so soon to die. |