O timid rose-buds, why delay your bloom,
The frost of Time is chill upon my hair;
Unclose your petals, shed your sweet perfume,
Like vesper incense on the evening air.
Gladden my withered heart while yet you may,
A rock is hid beneath each glowing wave;
The ardent sun, wooing your lips to-day,
To-morrow’s noon may mock your poet’s grave.
And rose-buds, ere their time may pass away;
The worm is there, an envious wind may blight;