Roses, if I live and do well,
I may bring her, one of these days,
To fix you fast with as fine a spell,
Fit you each with his Spanish phrase;
But do not detain me now; for she lingers
There, like sunshine over the ground,
And ever I see her soft white fingers
Searching after the bud she found.
V
Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not,
Stay as you are and be loved for ever!
Bud, if I kiss you, ’tis that you blow not:
Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never!
For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle
Twinkling the audacious leaves between,
Till round they turn and down they nestle—
Is not the dear mark still to be seen?