Ah, ah, Cytherea! Adonis is dead. She wept tear after tear, with the blood which was shed,-- And both turned into flowers for the earth's garden-close; Her tears, to the wind-flower,--his blood, to the rose.

Brazen helm of daffodillies, With a glitter toward the light. Purple violets for the mouth, Breathing perfumes west and south; And a sword of flashing lilies, Holden ready for the fight.

And lilies are still lilies, pulled By smutty hands, though spotted from their white.

Yet here's eglantine, Here's ivy!--take them as I used to do Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine. Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true, And tell thy soul their roots are left in mine.

The flower-girl's prayer to buy roses and pinks, Held out in the smoke, like stars by day.

World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane; but is not the fruit of pain.