DIE, half-blown rose, upon a grateful heart,
Whose life is quickened by thy ebbing breath;
Nay, thus to die were for a rose no death—
Live of my life the subtlest, keenest part!
I could have seen thee, precious as thou art,
Fade at my feet; but not to have thee blown
Of any breath less reverent than mine own,
My hand was fain a ruder hand to thwart.

And now, for fear my trespass should be known,
I do bestow thee where no eye may come,
I take thee to my heart, for thou art dumb,
And canst not mock my madness, or my moan;
If of my folly thou dost mount the sum,
Just sorrow will too soon my wrong atone.