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ROSES.
ROSES.
AROLD, on a summer day,Gave me roses for my hair,—
Roses red, and roses white,
As if pale with Love's despair.
White ones for my brow, he said,
Red to blush beside my cheek,—
And a bud to whisper me
Something that he dared not speak.
Red to blush beside my cheek,—
And a bud to whisper me
Something that he dared not speak.
Ah, that summer day is fled,
And its brightness comes not back:
Harold's roses something held
Other roses seem to lack.
And its brightness comes not back:
Harold's roses something held
Other roses seem to lack.
