Rose in the rain!
We part; I dare not look upon your tears:
So frail, so white, they shatter and they stain.
* * * * *
Love is a bird that breaks its voice with singing,
Love is a rose blown open till it fall,
Love is a bee that dies of its own stinging,
And Love the tinsel cross upon a pall.
Love is the Siren, towards a quicksand bringing
Enchanted fishermen that hear her call.
Love is a broken heart,—Farewell,—the wringing
Of dying hands. Ah, do not love at all!
* * * * *
[Illustration]
_Tuscan Olives._
(SEVEN RISPETTI.)
[Illustration]