Page:A masque of poets 1878.djvu/75

Rh Your game is losing, Though amusing. Pray, have you seen an early bud In spring unfold, Then shrink with cold And hide its blushing flower-blood?

In such a season There's small reason; And, though we sport with laughing May, 'Tis constant June So fair and boon That wins the flower and makes it stay.

Once overdo it, And you'll rue it: Too sharp a frost will kill, I fear. The bloom you waste Can't be replaced,— At least, until another year!