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Break not on their bliss; Earth will blush in roses Many a day for this, And bend a brighter brow beneath thy burning kiss. Baby's Age She came with April blooms and showers; We count her little life by flowers. As buds the rose upon her cheek, We choose a flower for every week. A week of hyacinths, we say, And one of heart's-ease, ushered May; And then because two wishes met Upon the rose and violet-- I liked the Beauty, Kate, the Nun-- The violet and the rose count one. A week the apple marked with white; A week the lily scored in light; Red poppies closed May's happy moon, And tulips this blue week in June. Here end as yet the flowery links; To-day begins the week of pinks; But soon--so grave, and deep, and wise The meaning grows in Baby's eyes, So VERY deep for Baby's age-- We think to date a week with sage! The Messenger Rose If you have seen a richer glow, Pray, tell me where your roses blow! Look! coral-leaved! and--mark these spots Red staining red in crimson clots, Like a sweet lip bitten through In a pique. There, where that hue Is spilt in drops, some fairy thing Hath gashed the azure of its wing, Or thence, perhaps, this very morn, Plucked the splinters of a thorn. Rose! I make thy bliss my care! In my lady's dusky hair Thou shalt burn this coming night, With even a richer crimson light. To requite me thou shalt tell-- What I might not say as well-- How I love her; how, in brief, On a certain crimson leaf In my bosom, is a debt Writ in deeper crimson yet. If she wonder what it be-- But she'll guess it, I foresee-- Tell her that I date it, pray, From the first sweet night in May. On Pressing Some Flowers So, they are dead! Love! when they passed From thee to me, our fingers met; O withered darlings of the May! I feel those fairy fingers yet. And for the bliss ye brought me then, Your faded forms are precious things; No flowers so fair, no buds so sweet Shall bloom through all my future springs. And so, pale ones! with hands as soft As if I closed a baby's eyes, I'll lay you in some favorite book Made
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