—Anemone some call it, wind-flower some,
Sprung from the crimson of Adonis’ blood
Where he was slain,—and how I softly said,
“O thou belovèd, beauty is a rose
Growing in Life’s fair garden, by the spring
Of deathless Purity, and that clear dew
Which lies within its sweetness hid, is Love.”
Dost thou recall? And so it chance, I pray
Though we be parted, now and evermore,
Think sometimes of that night, and fancy still