Chapter 7
A rose, but what can it say, So tender and sweet and dumb? What part of my love convey, What thrill of the joys to come? I send it, but how shall you, dear heart, Ever understand, that rapturous tear of dew It drops on your strong white hand, Or know that my lips have pressed those petals Until they blush, or feel that my heart has blessed
The flower that your touch may crush?
