Still barters he such baubles for the prize,
Which all regret when lost, yet can’t get back—
The heart—a useful matter in a bosom—
Though some folks won’t believe it till they lose ’em.
Love can say much, yet not a word be spoken.
Straight, as a wasp careering staid to sip
The dewy rose she held, the gardener’s token,
He, seizing on her hand, with hasty grip,
The stem sway’d earthward with its blossom, broken.
The gardener raised her hand unto his lip,