XXII
The rose is not fair without the beloved’s face,
Nor merry the Spring without the sweet laughter of wine;
The path through the fields, and winds from a flower-strewn place,
Without her bright cheek, which glows like a tulip fine,
Nor winds softly blowing, fields deep in corn, are fair.
And lips like to sugar, grace like a flower that sways,
Are nought without kisses many and dalliance sweet;
If thousands of voices sang not the rose’s praise,
The joy of the cypress her opening bud to greet,