Or dies their blush, so like thine own.
Thou seest, dear love, its beauties pass,
Its wasted petals fall, alas!,
In one short hour. It may not bide.
Unkind in truth is Mother Earth
Since dawn gives such a flower its birth
And Death draws nigh at eventide.
So, sweet my darling, hear my voice,
I bid thee, in thy youth, rejoice!
Before thy fragile petals close