All June I bound the rose in sheaves.
Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves
And strow them where Pauline may pass.
Let them lie. Suppose they die?
The chance was they might take her eye.
How many a month I strove to suit
These stubborn fingers to the lute!
To-day I venture all I know.
She will not hear my music? So!
Break the string; fold music’s wing:
Suppose Pauline had bade me sing!
My whole life long I learn’d to love.
This hour my utmost art I prove
And speak my passion—heaven or hell?
She will not give me heaven? ’T is well!
Lose who may—I still can say,
Those who win heaven, bless’d are they!
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