Day by day along the street
Many a girl I see is sweet;
But the lips that should be ripe,
Pallid like the Indian-pipe.

These, devoted and forlorn,
Brave to work and brave to mourn,
When the world is full of guile
Think to conquer with a smile.

Every day I meet some maid
Born, it seems, to be betrayed;
All the substance of desire
Burning with a paltry fire.

These for brief and bitter passion,
Like the poppy, God will fashion;
And the first rough wind that blows
Lays them broken down in rows.

Phyllis, when you see the frail
Fall, and courage not avail,
Is your true heart not dismayed
At the fortune of a maid?