ALL June I bound the rose in sheaves.


Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves


And strow them where Pauline may pass.


She will not turn aside? Alas!


Let them lie. Suppose they die?
        5

The chance was they might take her eye.


 

How many a month I strove to suit


These stubborn fingers to the lute!


To-day I venture all I know.


She will not hear my music? So!
        10

Break the string; fold music’s wing:


Suppose Pauline had bade me sing!


 

My whole life long I learn’d to love.


This hour my utmost art I prove


And speak my passion—heaven or hell?
        15

She will not give me heaven? ’T is well!


Lose who may—I still can say,


Those who win heaven, bless’d are they!