William Edward Marshall (1859–1923)

HATH the rude laugh of Boreas frighted thee,

My dainty one, that thou hast sought to hide

Thy loveliness from the young Spring, whose bride

Thou art, and, like a novice, ecstasy

Of life renounce, in this dark monast’ry

Of mossy cells? Nay, my pale beauty, chide

Me not, that I have mocked thy holy pride

With ardent praises of so rare modesty!

For I am come to claim thee, pretty flower,

As a sweet solace for my lady’s eyes,—

That thou—thy vigil past—all in a bower

Of love, may’st blush and bloom in glad surprise;

Happy, that, unawares, thy worth was known,

And all thy fragrance saved for Love alone.