by Robert Herrick
You are a tulip seen today,
But (dearest) of so short astay
That where you grew, scarce man can say.
You are a lovely July-flower,
Yet one rude wind, or milling shower.
Will force you hence, and in an hour.
You are a sparkling rose in the bud.
Yet lost ere that chaste flesh and blood
Can show where you grew or stood.
You are a full-spread fair-set vine.
And can with tendrils love entwine.
Yet dried, ere you distill your wine.
You are like balm enclosed well
In amber, or some crystal shell,
Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell.
You are a dainty violet.
Yet withered ere you can be set
Within the virgin's coronet.
You are the queen all flowers among.
But die you must, fair maid, ere long.
As he, the maker of this song.