Jacinths and jessamines and jonquils sweet,
All odorous pale flowers from Orient lands,
No vain red roses strew I at thy feet,
Emblems of grief and thee, with reverent hands.
Mine is no madrigal of passionate joy,
Or orison of aught less chaste than tears.
Ruth on thy brow sits fairest. Its annoy
Rends not thy beauty's raiment, nor the years.
In thy shut lips what secrets! Who am I
Should seek a sign at that dread sanctuary?
Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
