 | The Autumn Garden |  |
63
Rose Fantasia
Rose, that flushing hues did'st borrow
From my lute,
Pink for joy and pale for sorrow,—
Now 'tis mute,
Droop thine amber lids, and sleep
In a tide of perfume deep,
Till the sap of music creep
To thy root.
From my lute,
Pink for joy and pale for sorrow,—
Now 'tis mute,
Droop thine amber lids, and sleep
In a tide of perfume deep,
Till the sap of music creep
To thy root.
Dream; then die the death of roses
With no pain,
Till the yellowing wreck uncloses
In the rain,
And the ghost of music springs
On its dim gray moth-like wings
To my lute's neglected strings
Once again.
With no pain,
Till the yellowing wreck uncloses
In the rain,
And the ghost of music springs
On its dim gray moth-like wings
To my lute's neglected strings
Once again.
| The Autumn Garden | |