O tender bud, in cradle green conceal’d,
Thy blush yet sleeps, thy velvet lips are seal’d;
The wanton breeze doth kiss thy leaves in vain,
For thou, sweet maid, dost hide thy fragrant pain.
What secrets lie within thy folded grace?
What summer's sigh yet lingers on thy face?
O bloom not swift — the morn hath just begun,
And love would wait thee, 'neath the patient sun.