It is not that I love you — nay! and yet
Had I a lover, he would have your eyes,
Your lips, and be in all like you. Sir, see
This is a rose the winds have harried. Oh!
Here is a violet marred, a lily there.
Poor girls, their love or lover was too cruel;
And we are like them — we you men call flowers;
We, too, like these, are hurt with love, and lie
On the sweet earth so forsaken.