SLEEP, half-blown rose, against my lady's breast,
Rocked by my lady's heart and rhythmic breath,
Sleep on, sweet rose, awaiting sweeter death,
Such cradle may beseem a rose's rest.
Nay, hapless one, thou wakest dispossest;
Swooning for joy, or overborne of pride,
I see thee from thy snowy summit glide,
Low on the common earth to die unblest.

I stoop to lift thee, and I turn aside,
I dare not touch thee with a furtive hand,
I dare not keep thee wanting her command,
Nor bow before the holy thing I hide!
But here I wait and watch, here take my stand,
None else shall seize a joy to me denied.