Jealousy, Love’s cousin, hath long held its fiery vigil
Inside my bosom, and mine heart, the lifeless
Form of a rose wither’d and sere: anon will
I be from the sun-kissed vale of joyousness
Ostracised, alone, in tears, turning aside.
I wait for thee, Belovёd, standing on the shore
Of the wide world, in such an orphan tide,
Like the solitary eve waits—in vain—for
The new Aurora with her boundless rosy sway.
Lo, the wind o’er the blossom upon the bough
Tries to win, and O ye petals ... wellaway!
Who escape, fall, and become dust! And now
  The wind doth to yon Willow take his flight,
  Who stands in proud enamels, as his Lady bright.