Nor sad foreboding thrill it,
For honey-dew lies hid
Beneath a fragile lid,
And ardent clutch will spill it."
"Ay," cried the Rajah, "I like the counsel of the flowers.
Obeissance to the blast
Make, mock when it is past,
And rise like a washen rose, deliciously,
Forgetful of sorrow,
Unheeding the morrow,