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says I wrong thee, my half-opened rose? Little he knows of thee or me, or love.— I am so tender of thy fragile youth, Yea, in my hours of wildest ecstasy, Keeping close-bitted each careering sense. Only I give mine eyes unmeasured law To feed them where they will, and their delight Was curbed at first, until thy tender shame Died in the bearing of thy first born joy.

I am not cruel, my half-opened rose, Though in the sunshine of my own desire I have uncurled thy petals to the light And fed the tendrils of thy dawning sense With delicate caresses, till they leave Thee tremulous with the newness of thy joy, Sharing thy lover's fire with innocent flame.

Others will wrong thee, that I well foresee, Being a man, knowing my fellow men, And they who, knowing, would blame my love of thee Contentedly will see thy beauty given, When the world judges thou art ripe to wed,— 91