But why should I commit a sin
By wishing any flower for thee;
Thou art more beautiful, I know,
Than all the flowers of poetry.
What shall I then with thee compare,
To make a true comparison—
The dawning day, the dying light,
The rising or the setting sun?
At morn I see the early sun
Appear with glory in her eye,
But looking there, I think of thee,
And thinking of thee, for thee sigh.
At noon I see that fervid orb
Proclaim the sultry hour of day,
But looking there, I think of thee,
And thinking of thee, turn away.
At length I see that same bright sun
Descend below the western blue,
Yet looking there, I think of thee,
And thinking of thee love thee, too.
Fade then, ye flowers of the field,
And sink, ye dying beams of light,
But let, O let my Inez be
Forever present to my sight.
[THE CRIME OF CHRISTMASTIME.]
I.
