Blooms of rosemary,
Isabel, love,
today are blue flowers
but honey anon.

Jealous, dear, jealous
are you of him there,
blest that you seek him,
though he's blind to your care;
thankless, he angers,
self-assured his poise,
today not disclaiming
yesterdays wrong.
Let hope wipe out
all you weep for him,
for jealousies
of those who've loved
today are blue flowers,
but honey anon.

Dawn of yourself,
for whom pleasure's eclipsed
as you to pleasure
were about to wake;
let your eyes be still,
yield no more pearls,
for what befits daybreak
ill becomes the sun.
Dispel as if mists
all you can't view;
for lovers' suspicions
and rows that ensue
today are blue flowers,
but honey anon.