The Message of a Dead Rose
The hope which it begot
Is gone. An aching heart and head,
Is my unhappy lot.
Perhaps you could not fully know,
The danger of your smiles,
How often hearts are poisoned so,
By thoughtless maiden wiles.
I would not think so hard of heart
You thoughtfully could be;
To gratify a flirting art,
Such passion stirred in me.
Yet many a trusting heart has been
From honor made to rove,
In darksome ways and paths of sin,
By lightly feeding love.