A Bagatelle

Not all the roses God hath made
Can love the sun aright:
The white rose is too chastely staid

To praise his warmth and light, —
But great red roses, they can love
With their deep hearts their king above.

Nor nightingales by night that sing
Can love alike the moon;
Nor all the flowers that come with Spring

Can praise aright her boon, —
One nightingale most feels Night's power;
And Spring is dearest to one flower.

Not all the gulls that skim the sea
Delight alike in storm;
And never man, Sweetheart, to thee

Gave love so true and warm
As mine, that Heaven ordained on high
To worship thee until I die.