The moist red hearts of these—
Alas, no longer give out blissful breath,
But odors rank with death.
Their dewiness is dank;
It chills my pallid arms,
Once blushing 'neath their charms;
And their green stems hang lank,
Stricken with leprosy, and fair no more,
But withered to the core.
Vain thought! to bear along,