There's blood upon the lady's cheek,
There's brightness in her eye:
Who says the sentence is gone forth
That that fair thing must die?
Must die before the flowering lime,
Out yonder, sheds its leaf—
Can this thing be, O human flower!
Thy blossoming so brief?
Nay, nay, 'tis but a passing cloud,
Thou didst but droop awhile;