Or pluck, and to my bosom I will fold,

One rose, selected from these wealthy bowers,

Upgathering closely to its virgin heart

An undivulgèd hoard of central gold.

{29}

{29}

TO THE SAME.

Look, dearest, what a glory from the sun

Look

Has fringed that cloud with silver edges bright,

And how it seems to drink the golden light

Of evening—you would think that it had won

A splendour of its own: but lo! anon

You shall behold a dark mass float away,

Emptied of light and radiance, from the day,

Its glory faded utterly and gone.

And doubt not we should suffer the same loss

As this weak vapour, which awhile did seem

Translucent and made pure of all its dross,

If, having shared the light, we should misdeem

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