The dew that used to wet thee,
And, white first, grow incarnadined because
It lay upon thee where the crimson was,— 15
If dropping now, would darken where it met thee.
The fly that ’lit upon thee,
To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet
Along thy leafs pure edges after heat,—
If ’lighting now, would coldly overrun thee. 20
The bee that once did suck thee,
And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,