She Was Won In An Idle Day

She was won in an idle day,—
Won when the roses were red in June,
And the world was set to a drowsy tune,—
Won by a lover who rode away.

Summer things basked in the summer sun;
Through the roses a vagrant wind
Stole, their passionate hearts to find,
Found them, and kissed them, and then was gone.

Wooded by the June day's fervid breath,
Violets opened their violet eyes,
Gazed too long at the ardent skies,
And swooned with the dying day to death.

Nothing was earnest, and nothing was true,—
Winds were wanton, and flowers were frail;
And the idle lover who told his tale,
Warmed by the June sun through and through,

Kissed her lips as the wind the rose,—
Kissed them for joy in the summer day,—
And then was ready to ride away
When over the night the moon arose.

The violets died with the day's last breath;
The roses slept when the wind was low;
What chanced to the butterflies, who can know?
But she—oh, pity her—waits for death!
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