 | English Roses |  |
THE TRYST.
In the sweet of the morning I roseTo the trysting and went,
And the violet from its repose
Gave me greeting of scent;
And the foxglove awoke from its dreams
In the rivulet glassed,
And though white blushed with alien beams
As in passion I passed.
All the birds tuned their silvery throats,
And the throstle and dove
Brushed the dew from their bosoms and coats
At the meeting of love.
| English Roses | |