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 Be not too proud, my little haughty moon, 

Nor to my love deny so small a boon;

My heart is heavy, love can make it light— 

Fair as a flower—and faded just as soon!

What though thy body like a moon be fair, 

Tulips thy cheeks, and like a bower thy hair,—

Strange that the builder of the heavens should deign 

To paint thy little phantom on the air!

Vain little breath of sweet rose-coloured dust, 

For such as thou Death hath a fearful lust,—

See, where he tears the rose's veil aside, 

Kisses and shatters her with one wild gust.