A bundle of roses in thy petit hands; The bloody red shines with the snowy white. They dance silently in some golden bands; All are woven in amorous delight. Thy gleaming sight among the blossoms glides, And thy fingers wander through each petal, Like a gentle serpent easefully slides, But suddenly in voice sweet yet fatal, "I love the red," say thou, "but not the white." So the pure and chaste drops from thy embrace, That thou tread upon in elegant spite--- The fallen roses in dirt of disgrace! Are now deadly pale as my drops of tear, That shed for such horror form such beauty. Depart thou, leaving me in woe and fear; The red in thy palms rejoices in cruelty, On their white sisters' miserable plight. For now I see how doth the world round ride: "'Tis natural to hold the lovely tight, And so to cast the unpleasant aside." Despair not, ye denied! 'Tis how Love goes: Likes or dislikes---a door open or close. -- Amor vincit omnia. --

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