Page:Flowers of Loveliness.pdf/34



It boots not keeping back the scroll, I know thy tender words, (“My life, my idol, and my soul!”) Its scented page affords. There—give it me, that I may fling Its fragments on the wind, A faithless and a worthless thing For such a fate designed.

What tho’ the Iris in my room Bids Hope’s sweet promise live, I take no lesson from its bloom, I have no hope to give. Soon, with the summer sun’s control, Those azure leaves decay; And yet the words on yonder scroll Are more short-lived than they.

I care not for a love that springs Where other fancies dwell, The rainbow’s hue upon its wings, The rainbow’s date as well; By Vanity and Folly nurst: Of happiness it dies: It springeth from a fancy first, And with a fancy flies.

Ay, let them prettily complain, With graceful sorrow strive; They should be glad of my disdain, It keeps their love alive. I gave the ribbon from my hair, The blossom from my hand, But I have not a thought to spare For any of their band.