The woman who wakes all this rapture leaned
Flower-like from out her window long enough,
As ranch uncomplemented as uncropped
By comers and goers in Via Vittoria: eh?
'Tis just a flower's fate: past parterre we trip,
Till peradventure some one plucks our sleeve—
"Yon blossom at the brier's end, that's the rose
Two jealous people fought for yesterday
And killed each other: see, there's undisturbed
A pretty pool at the root, of rival red!"