What pity ye no longer last.
In early dawn the Vi’let spreads,
Its transient beauties thro’ the meads;
At close of day the maid no more
Can trace, alas! her fav’rite flow’r.
At noon the rose of damask hue,
She plucks, the gaudiest as it grew;
An instant sees its leaves expand,
The next they wither in her hand.
Yet one there is of lasting kind—