 | Songs of Killarney |  |
149
THE FIRST ROSE.
A MELODY.
The rose that in the springtide ventures forthTo woo the Zephyr, with her crimson smiles
And odorous wiles,
Too often chances on the cruel North;
For every kiss of his cold lips,
With poisonous blight her beauty nips.
Till one by one with downcast head
She weeps away her petals red,
And with the last, bereft of life and light
Sighs forth her passionate soul on the dark lap of night.
| Songs of Killarney | |