TO ——

What maiden gathers flowers, who does not love[2]?

And some have said, that none in summer bowers,

Save lovers, wreathe them garlands of fresh flowers:

O lady, of a purpose dost thou move

Through garden walks, as willing to disprove

This gentle faith; who, with uncareful hand,

Hast culled a thousand thus at my command,

Wherewith thou hast this dewy garland wove.

There is no meaning in a thousand flowers—

One lily from its green stalk wouldst thou part,

Or pluck, and to my bosom I will fold,

One rose, selected from these wealthy bowers,

Upgathering closely to its virgin heart

An undivulgèd hoard of central gold.