Mother's Roses

Mother's roses caught envy When thy arrival smit, pale as stone My countenance (from having pined), ripen As the setting Sun Hast dipped her hand on me. And when thou goad, "Hast thou been kissed by the Sun?" Sweeter than fig, Nay — naught more than thy voice, the Heavens spill their cup, to salvage my malady, Such was the bliss! but o'er my lids it weighed. Frenzied, my energy rose, Howe'er will I lift my gaze, To greet thy adoring eyes.