ONCE, his feet among the roses,
When the roses were all white,
Eros wreathed the faint, wan posies
Round Zeus' goblet ; but, ere sipping,
'Mid the buds his ankle tripping,
Lavished half the vintage bright
On the roses, that, fresh-dripping.
Flushed the cup for heaven's lipping ;
And the god's eyes felt delight
That the roses were not white.
But the sweetest of the roses.
By that fiery rain unfed,
Coyly still her bosom closes.
Still the crimson vesture misses ;
Pale 'mid all the purple this is.
Love, thy burning wine-drops shed I
When her blushes make my blisses.
Glowing answer to my kisses,
In thy triumph be it said
That the roses are all red.