PHYLLIS AND CORYDON
Phyllis took a red rose from the tangles of her hair,—
Time, the Golden Age; the place, Arcadia, anywhere,—
Phyllis laughed, the saucy jade: "Sir Shepherd, wilt
have this,
Or"—Bashful god of skipping lambs and oaten reeds!
—"a kiss?"
Bethink thee, gentle Corydon! A rose lasts all night
long,
A kiss but slips from off your lips like a thrush's
evening song.
A kiss that goes, where no one knows! A rose, a
crimson rose!
Corydon made his choice and took—Well, which do
you suppose?