Bury your faces cheek-deep in their chill;
Press the flushed petals and open your dresses—
So—let them trickle your young breasts to thrill.
Winter has wronged us of sunlight and sweetness,
We who so soon must be hid from the sun;
Winter is on us as summer's completeness
Faint-hearted drops down a tired world undone;
Brief is the bloom-time as sleepy maids' laughter
Who know not one bed-time 'tis summer's last day.
Though from the heart of the rose they have quaffed her.