Classic Poem

So jealous of your beauty,
You will not wed
For dread
That hymeneal duty
Should touch and mar
The lovely thing you are?
Come to your garden-bed!

Learn there another lesson:
This poppy-head,
Instead
Of having crimson dress on,
Is now a fruit,
Whose marvellous pale suit
Transcends the glossy red.

What, count the colour
Of apricot,
Ungot,
Warming in August, duller
Than those most shy,
Frail flowers that spread and die
Before the sun is hot!

Lady, the hues unsightly,
And best forgot,
Are not
Berries and seeds set brightly,
But withered blooms:
Alack, vainglory dooms
You to their ragged lot!