REFLECTION IN A FLOWER GARDEN.
I hate the flower whose wanton breast[9]
Awaits the sun at morn and noon,
And when he's hid behind the west,
As gaily flaunteth with the moon.
Mine be the flower of virgin leaf,
That when its sire has left the plain,
Wraps up its charms in silent grief,
Nor ope's them till he comes again.