Fly not thus my brow of snow,
Lovely wanton! fly not so.
Though the wane of age is mine,
And the brilliant flush is thine,
Still I'm doom'd to sigh for thee,
Blest, if thou could'st sigh for me!
See — in yonder flowery braid,
Cull'd for thee, my blushing maid,
How the rose, of orient glow,
Mingles with the lily's snow;
Mark, how sweet their tints agree,
Just, my girl, like thee and me!