 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
359
THE LONELY ROSE.
“To a heaven far away
Went the Red Rose when she died:”
So I heard the White Rose say,
As she swayed from side to side
In the chill October blast!
In the garden leaves fall fast,—
This of roses is the last.
Went the Red Rose when she died:”
So I heard the White Rose say,
As she swayed from side to side
In the chill October blast!
In the garden leaves fall fast,—
This of roses is the last.
Said the White Rose, “O my Red Rose,
O my Rose so fair to see,
When like thee I am a dead rose
Shall I in thy heaven be?”
O the drear October blast!
In the garden leaves fall fast,—
This of roses is the last.
O my Rose so fair to see,
When like thee I am a dead rose
Shall I in thy heaven be?”
O the drear October blast!
In the garden leaves fall fast,—
This of roses is the last.
“From that heavenly place, last night,
To me in a dream she came,—
Stood there in the pale moonlight,
And she seemed, my Rose, the same.”
O the chill October blast!
In the garden leaves fall fast,—
This of roses is the last.
To me in a dream she came,—
Stood there in the pale moonlight,
And she seemed, my Rose, the same.”
O the chill October blast!
In the garden leaves fall fast,—
This of roses is the last.
“Only it maybe, perchance,
That her leaves were redder grown,
And they seemed to thrill and dance
As by gentle breezes blown.”
O the drear October blast!
In the garden leaves fall fast,—
This of roses is the last.
That her leaves were redder grown,
And they seemed to thrill and dance
As by gentle breezes blown.”
O the drear October blast!
In the garden leaves fall fast,—
This of roses is the last.
360
“And she told me, sweetly singing,
Of that heavenly place afar
Where the air with song is ringing,
Where the souls of dead flowers are.”
O the chill October blast!
In the garden leaves fall fast,—
This of roses is the last.
Of that heavenly place afar
Where the air with song is ringing,
Where the souls of dead flowers are.”
O the chill October blast!
In the garden leaves fall fast,—
This of roses is the last.
“And she bade me not to fail her,
Not to lose my heart with fear
When I saw the skies turn paler
With the sickness of the year,—
I should be beyond the blast
And the leaves now falling fast,
In that heavenly place at last.”
Not to lose my heart with fear
When I saw the skies turn paler
With the sickness of the year,—
I should be beyond the blast
And the leaves now falling fast,
In that heavenly place at last.”
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |