Petals still were not shaken,
I should pluck you,
Howe'er you should thorn me and scorn me,
And wear you for life as the green of the bower.
If 'twere fair to suppose
That that road was for vagrants,
That the wind and the rose,
Counted all in their fragrance;
Oh, my dear one,
By love, I should take you and make you,