John Byrom

Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue?
And where is the violet's beautiful blue?
Does aught read more

Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue?
And where is the violet's beautiful blue?
Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile?
That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile?

A hand may first, and then a lip be kiss'd.

A hand may first, and then a lip be kiss'd.

How sweet the task to shield an absent friend!
I ask but this of mine to--not defend.

How sweet the task to shield an absent friend!
I ask but this of mine to--not defend.

How the devil is it that fresh features
Have such a charm for us poor human creatures?

How the devil is it that fresh features
Have such a charm for us poor human creatures?

His tact, too, temper'd him from grave to gay,
And taught him when to be reserved or free.

His tact, too, temper'd him from grave to gay,
And taught him when to be reserved or free.