Even after all these years, this poem still makes my heart skip a beat. I am weary of the Garden, Said the Rose; For the winter winds are sighing, All my playmates round me dying, And my leaves will soon be lying 'Neath the snows. But I hear my Mistress coming, Said the Rose; She will take me to her chamber, Where the honeysuckles clamber, And I'll bloom there all December Spite the snows. Sweeter fell her lily finger Than the bee! Ah, how feebly I resisted, Smoothed my thorns, and e'en assisted As all blushing I was twisted Off my tree. And she fixed me in her bosom Like a star; And I flashed there all the morning, Jasmine, honeysuckle scorning, Parasites forever fawning That they are. And when evening came she set me In a vase. All of rare...