Pauses enamored, from thy breath contriving
To steal the perfume of the incensed fire
Which brightly burns within, yet burns without desire.
Thy life should be among the roses, where
Beauty without its passion paints each leaf,
And gently-falling dews upon the air
The light of loveliness exhale, and brief
And glorious, without toil, or pain, or care,
They prideless bloom and wither without grief.
Thou shouldst not feel the slow and sure decay