A flower began to rear its purple head; Such as on Punic apples is reveal’d, Or in the filmy rind but half conceal’d. Still here the fate of lovely forms we see, So sudden fades the sweet anemone: The feeble stems, to stormy blasts a prey, Their sickly beauties droop, and pine away: The winds forbid the flowers to flourish long, Which, owe to winds their names in Grecian song.