Is it dew on the rose?
‘ T is the same that I gave him
Last night when I chose
To warn him and save him;
That he pinned on his breast
With a smile at his danger,
And a smile, not in jest,
That was sweeter and stranger
Here are footprints of foes!
Oh, my heart!— I can feel
It is blood on the rose
And a sliver of steel.