Discarded
Last night I lay on her breast;
To-day I lie at her feet.
Then to her heart I was pressed;
Now—you tread on me, sweet!
Ah, lightly as possible, pray—
Grace for your one rose of last night!
If perhaps I look faded to-day,
Are you quite so fresh in this light?
And though nice of you dropping that tear,—
There are some who may think it my due,—
Did it never occur to you, dear,
That the flower may have wearied of you?
To-day I lie at her feet.
Then to her heart I was pressed;
Now—you tread on me, sweet!
Ah, lightly as possible, pray—
Grace for your one rose of last night!
If perhaps I look faded to-day,
Are you quite so fresh in this light?
And though nice of you dropping that tear,—
There are some who may think it my due,—
Did it never occur to you, dear,
That the flower may have wearied of you?
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