The blossoms redden with the sun's desire——
⁠Only the passion-flowers are colourless,
⁠Burnt up and wasted with their own excess,
And tinted like the ashes of their fire.
 
Look down and see the reddest rose aspire
To touch your hand—he climbs the trellis-wire,
⁠Burning to reach your indolent caress,
⁠Before the night.
 
Ah, Love, be wise! for all too soon we tire,
When once the longed-for guerdon we acquire.
⁠The wonder that we think not to possess,
⁠Once in our keeping, holds us less and less.
Nay—let us love, nor all too much inquire,
⁠Before the night.