That beats against thy bosom: stand apart
And stay thine eager breath, lest anything
Should mar his rest—the songs that lovers sing,
The tale the butterfly tells to the rose,
The low wind to the grass, and onward goes.
Love lies a-sleeping: ah, how swiftly goes
The sweet delusion he hath taught thy heart,
Fair maiden, pressing to thy breast the rose,
Whose fun-kissed petals sadly fall apart,
With thy quick breath! Thy rhyme wouldst hear him sing