EDMUND GOSSE.
1849.
| SONG FOR THE LUTE. I bring a garland for your head Of blossoms fresh and fair; My own hands wound their white and red To ring about your hair: Here is a lily, here a rose, A warm narcissus that scarce blows, And fairer blossoms no man knows. So crowned and chapleted with flowers, I pray you be not proud; For after brief and summer hours Comes autumn with a shroud;— Though fragrant as a flower you lie, You and your garland, bye and bye, Will fade and wither up and die. |
