Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness,
delightful lily of wanton loveliness,
richest in bounty and in beauty clear
and in every virtue that men hold dear―
except only that you are merciless.

Into your garden, today, I followed you
through lustrous flowers of freshest hue,
both white and red, delightful to see,
and wholesome herbs, waving resplendently―
yet everywhere, no leaf nor petal of rue.

I fear that March with his last arctic blast
has slain my fair flower of pallid and gentle cast,
whose piteous death does my heart such pain
that, if I could, I would plant love's root again―
so comforting her bowering leaves have been.