For as a gardener turning back his head
To catch the last notes of the linnet, mows
With careless scythe too near some flower bed,
And cuts the thorny pillar of the rose,
And with the flower's loosened loveliness
Strews the brown mold, or as some shepherd lad
in wantonness
Driving his little flock along the mead
Treads down two daffodils which side by side
Have lured the lady-bird with yellow brede
And made the gaudy moth forget its pride,
Treads down their brimming golden chalices
Under light feet which were not made for such
rude ravages,
Or as a schoolboy tired of his book
Flings himself down upon the reedy grass
And plucks two water-lilies from the brook,
And for a time forgets the hour glass,
Then wearies of their sweets, and goes his way,
And lets the hot sun kill them, even so these
lovers lay,
And Venus cried, "It is dread Artemis
Whose bitter hand hath wrought this cruelty,
Or else that mightier mayde whose care it is
To guard her strong and stainless majesty
Upon the hill Athenian,- alas!
That they who loved so well unloved into Death's
house should pass.
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