It chanced on the noon of an April day
A dragon-fly passed in its sunward play
And furled his flight for a passing hour
To drain the life of a passion-flower
Who cares if a ruined blossom die,
O bright blue wandering dragon-fly?

Love came, with his ivory flute,
His pleading eye, and his winged foot:
“I am weary,” he murmured; “O let me rest
In the sheltering joy of your fragrant breast.”
At dawn he fled and he left no token
Who cares if a woman's heart be broken?
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