II
Where the thin light slipping sweet
Dimples prints of Fairy feet
On the white-rose blooms,
One dim blossom delicate
Droops a face all pale with hate,
Dead with sick perfumes.
III
And I read the riddle wove
In this rose's course of love
For the fickle pink:—
Thou the rose's phantom art
Stealing to the pink's false heart
Vampire-like to drink.
V
A DEAD LILY.
I
The South had saluted her mouth
Till her mouth was sweet with the South.
II
And the North with his breathings low
Made the blood in her veins like his snow.