Page:Beachy Head and Other Poems.pdf/136

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But in the next more genial hour Thy tender rose-shaped cups unfold, And soon appears the perfect flower, With ruby spots and threads of gold.

That short and fleeting hour gone by, And even the slightest breath of air, Scarce heard among thy leaves to sigh, Or little bird that flutters there;

Shakes off thy petals thin and frail, And soon, like half-congealing snow, The sport of every wandering gale, They strew the humid turf below.