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THE ROSE.
Say, golden Summer, now
What art thou bringing,
Now on the orchard bough
No thrush is singing,
Now that no wood-dove's coo
Comes the green forest through,
And trills of rapture, no lark down is flinging?
What bring'st thou, Summer?
What art thou bringing,
Now on the orchard bough
No thrush is singing,
Now that no wood-dove's coo
Comes the green forest through,
And trills of rapture, no lark down is flinging?
What bring'st thou, Summer?
Gone are the tender songs
April was singing;
Gone are the pale sweet throngs
April was bringing;
What, for the snow-drop frail,
What, for the primrose pale,
What, now no breeze sets the lily's bells ringing,
What bring'st thou, Summer?
April was singing;
Gone are the pale sweet throngs
April was bringing;
What, for the snow-drop frail,
What, for the primrose pale,
What, now no breeze sets the lily's bells ringing,
What bring'st thou, Summer?
“I bring a glory rare,”
So Summer singeth,
“Fairer than all things fair;
“Blooms that Spring bringeth,
“You are pale Winter snows,
“Seen by my flushing rose
“When all her wonder of beauty she flingeth
“Wide to the Summer.”
So Summer singeth,
“Fairer than all things fair;
“Blooms that Spring bringeth,
“You are pale Winter snows,
“Seen by my flushing rose
“When all her wonder of beauty she flingeth
“Wide to the Summer.”
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