Deep in a yew-sequestered grove I sat and wept my heart away; A child came by at close of day With eyes as sweet as new-born love. He came from sun-bleached meadows where High on the hedge the topmost rose Curtsies to every wind that blows. A wanton of the summer air. The sunset aureoled his brow, Kindling the roses in his hand, And by my side I saw him stand To offer me his rose-red bough: Take back thy gift--I sighed forlorn, And showed where like the yew's red seed, My blood had trickled, bead on bead, From wounds made by his cruel thorn. He smiled and said:--Nay, take my Rose; You know, when all is said and done, There's not a joy beneath the sun Worth lovers' joys but lovers' woes.