Ope’d to the sun’s hot kisses—foolish thing,
To list the tale oft told!—but summer goes,
And all the roses’ petals fall apart.
Love lies a-sleeping; let the curtains part
So that the breeze may lightly to him sing
A lullaby—the changeful breeze that goes
A-whispering through the grass, where’er it rose,
Where’er it listeth bound, a wilful thing,
Low murmuring sweets from an inconstant heart.
Love lies a-sleeping: press the pulsing heart