Darling, each morning a blooded rose
Lures the sunlight in, and shows
Her soft, moist and secret part;
See now, before you go to bed,
Her skirts replaced, her darker red:
A color like your own, sweetheart.
Alas! her petals are blown away!
She lost her beauties in a day,
Vanished like ashes in the wind.
O savage Time! that what we prize
Should flutter down before our eyes—
Who also, late or soon, descend.
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