TO A CERTAIN PERSON ON THE MORNING OF HER NINETEENTH-BIRTHDAY

W HILE your fond guardian, Sleep,
Your beauty still doth keep
From the rude gaze of the marauding Day, —
Who vainly plies his might
To waken you with light, —
I these lush roses on your pillow lay.

One for each gracious year
That made you sweet and dear,
They bring you nothing of the world but fair;
Here by your roseleaf face
They crave to lie a space,
For only while you slumber may they dare.