The Blossom

On a day–alack the day!– Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air:

Through the velvet leaves the wind All unseen ‘gan passage find; That the lover, sick to death, Wish’d himself the heaven’s breath.

Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow; Air, would I might triumph so! But, alack, my hand is sworn Ne’er to pluck thee from thy thorn:

Vow, alack, for youth unmeet; Youth so apt to pluck a sweet! Do not call it sin in me That I am forsworn for thee;

Thou for whom e’en Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiop were;
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.

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