Thou wilt not charm an Artist's eye,
Upon the breast of some fair maid!
Ah, no, thine is a nobler fate,
Unlike the lily or the rose,
Thou passest to a higher state
When in sad death thy petals close:
For then thine outward form, grown pale
Is changed to what, at first scarce seen,
Is still thyself, so fair, so frail,
A little fruit of tender green!