It is not that I love you — nay! and yet br Had I a lover, he would have your eyes, br Your lips, and be in all like you. Sir, see br This is a rose the winds have harried. Oh! br Here is a violet marred, a lily there. br Poor girls, their love or lover was too cruel; br And we are like them — we you men call flowers; br We, too, like these, are hurt with love, and lie br On the sweet earth so forsaken.