The Blossom

 ON a day--alack the day!-- 
Love, whose month is ever May, 
Spied a blossom passing fair 
Playing in the wanton air: 
Through the velvet leaves the wind 
All unseen 'gan passage find; 
That the lover, sick to death, 
Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
 
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow; 
Air, would I might triumph so! 
But, alack, my hand is sworn 
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn: 
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet; 
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet! 
Do not call it sin in me 
That I am forsworn for thee; 
Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear 
Juno but an Ethiop were; 
And deny himself for Jove, 
Turning mortal for thy love.

Biography | Poems | Best Poems | Short Poems | Quotes | Email Poem |

Poems are below...