Classic Poem

Take thou this rose, sweet even as thou art,
Thou rose of roses rarest, loveliest,
Thou flower of freshest flowers, whose fragrance blest
Enwraps me, ravished from myself apart.

Take thou this rose, and with it take my heart,
My heart that hath no wings, unto thy breast,
So constant that its faith stands manifest,
Though wounded sore with many a cruel dart.

The rose and I are diverse in one thing:
Each morning's rose at eve lies perishing,
While countless mornings see my love new-born

But never night shall see its life decay. . . .
Ah! would that love, new-blossomed in the morn,
Even as a flower had lasted but a day.