'Tis but a little dying flower,
But ah, how beautious fair,
Its sweetness gains a hundred fold.
By twining in her hair.
Methinks its beauty in its death,
Increased from where it lay,
Ah, did I claim it for mine own,
My secret I'd betray.
'Tis but a fading, dying flower,
But with what bliss it dies,
Reclining on her lovely brow
Before its fragrance flies.
Methinks if I could die like thee,
Clasped in her fond embrace,
'Twould be more sweet than living on,
Could I not see her face.
'Tis but a little dying flower,
Ah, better thus to die,
Than live uncared for by her smile,
That's loving, pure and shy.
Methinks the loveliest flowers that grow
May envy thee thy bliss,
Expiring thus within her hair,
Whilst thou her tresses kiss.