 | The Autumn Garden |  |
66
The Fallen Rose
Life, like an overweighted shaken rose,
Falls, in a cloud of colour, to my feet;
Its petals strew my first November snows,
Too soon, too fleet!
Falls, in a cloud of colour, to my feet;
Its petals strew my first November snows,
Too soon, too fleet!
'Twas my own breath had blown the leaves apart,
My own hot eyelids stirred them where they lay;
It was the tumult of my own bright heart
Broke them away.
My own hot eyelids stirred them where they lay;
It was the tumult of my own bright heart
Broke them away.
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