Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/265

Rh

Droopingly, round some were bound; Others were with tendrils wound Of the green and laughing vine,— And the barb was dipp'd in wine. But all these are summer ills, Like the tree whose stem distils Balm beneath its pleasant shade In the wounds its thorns have made. Though the flowers may fade and die, 'Tis but a light penalty. All these bloom-clad darts are meant But for a short-lived content!— Yet one arrow has a power Lasting till life's latest hour— Weary day and sleepless night, Lightning gleams of fierce delight,