O fearful firstling dove ! 
My dawn and spring of love, 
Love’s light and lure ! 
Look (as I bend above) 
Through bright lids filled thereof 
Perfect and pure, 
Thy bloom of maidenhood. 
I could not :  if I could, 
I would not :  being good, 
Also endure ! 
 
 
Cruel, to tear or mar 
The chaliced nenuphar ; 
Cruel to press 
The rosebud ; cruel to scar 
Or stain the flower-star 
With mad caress. 
But crueller to destroy 
The leaping life and joy 
Born in a careless boy 
From lone distress. 
 
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