To Chloe

Of all flowers the fairest
Is the rose to me;
I had deem’d it dearest
For its constancy.

Every day completer
Seem’d it to my view,
And its breath was sweeter,
Brighter was its hue.

Trust not Fortune’s blossom,
For my rose I found
On the mountain’s bosom
Choked with absinth round.

Yet it had not perish’d;
Still in smiles it shone--
’Twas the rose I cherish’d,
But--its breath was gone.

Chloe! I bethink me
What a rose thou art!
Foolish one! to link me
To a woman’s heart.