Of her I deem more fair,
And what are all the sweets of spring
If wine be wanting there?
O! who will pause the choice to doubt
Of walks where music rings,
Or bowers in richest bloom without
The notes the Bulbul sings?
In vain the cypress waves, in vain
A thousand flowrets sigh,
Without the cheek whose tint excels
The tulip's crimson dye!
Yet what are lips where sweetness clings,
And cheeks where roses dwell,
Without the kiss, the joy, the bliss
Of pleasure's potent spell?
The wine and garden both are sweet,
But sweetest wine and grove
I loathe, if there I cannot meet
The face and form I love.
The brightest, fairest works of art
That skilful hands devise
Are nought, without the hand and heart
Of her I fondest prize.
And what's my life ?—perhaps a coin—
A trifling coin at best—
Unheeded e'en by passer-by,
Unfit for bridal guest.