No crown of thorn
she bears for shield
like roses born
in sheltered field—

O Life, tread not
(capricious clown)
this gentle plot
of lilies down.

Some day she will
be old and wise
as Eve, yet still
may her brown eyes

and golden hair
be lovely yet,
still shining fair
through toil and fret.

O Life, tread soft
upon this heart
till pale winds waft
her soul apart,

and she be laid
where lovely eyes
must surely fade,
and heart be wise.