Page:Poems by Frances Fuller Victor.djvu/33

 Gone is my strength of heart;

The roses that I brought

From thy dear bowers, and thought

To keep, since we must part—

Thy thornless roses, sweeter until now,

Than round Hymettus' brow.

The golden-vested bees

Find sweetest sweetness in—

Such odors dwelt within

The moist red hearts of these—

Alas, no longer give out blissful breath,

But odors rank with death.

Their dewiness is dank,

It chills my pallid arms,

Once blushing 'neath their charms,

And their green stems hang lank,

Stricken with leprosy, and fair no more,

But withered to the core.

Vain thought, to bear along

Into this torrid track,

Whence no one turneth back

With his first wanderer's song

Yet on his lips, thy odors and thy dews,

To deck these dwarfed yews.

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