The pride of every grove I chose, <br />The violet sweet and lily fair, <br />The dappled pink and blushing rose, <br />To deck my charming Cloe's hair. <br /> <br />At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place <br />Upon her brow the various wreath; <br />The flowers less blooming than her face, <br />The scent less fragrant than her breath. <br /> <br />The flowers she wore along the day, <br />And every nymph and shepherd said, <br />That in her hair they look'd more gay <br />Than glowing in their native bed. <br /> <br />Undress'd at evening, when she found <br />Their odours lost, their colours past, <br />She changed her look, and on the ground <br />Her garland and her eyes she cast. <br /> <br />That eye dropp'd sense distinct and clear <br />As any Muse's tongue could speak, <br />When from its lid a pearly tear <br />Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. <br /> <br />Dissembling what I knew too well, <br />My love, my life, said I, explain <br />This change of humour; pr'ythee tell, <br />That falling tear - what does it mean? <br /> <br />She sigh'd, she smiled; and to the flowers <br />Pointing, the lovely moralist said, <br />See, friend, in some few fleeting hours, <br />See yonder what a change is made. <br /> <br />Ah me! the blooming pride of May <br />And that of Beauty are but one; <br />At morn both flourish bright and gay, <br />Both fade at evening, pale, and gone. <br /> <br />At dawn poor Stella danced and sung, <br />The amorous youth around her bow'd; <br />At night her fatal knell was rung; <br />I saw and kiss'd her in her shroud. <br /> <br />Such as she is who died to-day, <br />Such I, alas! may be to-morrow; <br />Go, Damon, bid thy Muse display <br />The justice of thy Cloe's sorrow.<br /><br />Matthew Prior<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-garland/
