For thou not yet hadst won it,

How much I took, how little gave—

I would I had not done it.

Lift up thy drooping head again—

I would the word would do it!—

Make me not weep for plucking thee;

Thou know’st how much I rue it.

Thy pure and purple-tinted petals,

Thy open lily-lips,

Thy olden-golden anthered stamens