But it is right, and lest I err
So scatter I all thought of her.
Poor withered rose, so like my heart,
That wilts at sorrow's cruel dart.
Who hath not felt the winter's blight
When every hope seemed warm and bright?
Who doth not know love unreturned,
E'en when the heart most wildly burned?
Poor withered rose, thou liest dead;
Too soon thy beauty's bloom hath fled.