The zest of joys—complete, as knows
Thy vital flame, the pang that tost
And changed thee past, where now it glows—
Knowing, yet feeling all is lost.
There is a flower of tender white
And, on its spotless bosom, play
The moon's soft beams, one lovely night;
But when appears the morning ray
'Tis shut and withered—even now
Around your lime I see it wave; [FN#27]
'Tis pure, and fresh, and fair, as thou—
And sinks in beauty to its grave.
[FN#27] The white convolvulus; it blossoms just after sun-set, and is seen in great abundance entwining the lime-hedges, about the plantations of Cuba.