To Constantia

The rose that drinks the fountain dew In the pleasant air of noon, Grows pale and blue with altered hue-- In the gaze of the nightly moon; For the planet of frost, so cold and bright, Makes it wan with her borrowed light.

Such is my heart--roses are fair, And that at best a withered blossom; But thy false care did idly wear Its withered leaves in a faithless bosom; And fed with love, like air and dew, Its growth--