Beneath my feet when Flora cast
Her choicest sweets of various hue,
Their charms, unheeded as I passed,
Nor cheered my sense, nor took my view.

I chose, neglecting all the rest,
The Provence rose too fully blown.
I lodged it in my virgin breast;
It drooped, alas, and died too soon!

This gentle sigh, this rain of eyes,
Thy beauty never can recall:
'Tis thus that all perfection flies,
And love and life must fade and fall.