Then steal away, give little warning,
Choose thine own time;
Say not good night, but in some brighter clime
Bid me good-morning.”
DESTINY.
Three roses, wan as moonlight, and weighed down
Each with its loveliness as with a crown,
Drooped in a florist’s window in a town.
The first a lover bought. It lay at rest,
Like snow on snow, that night, on beauty’s breast.