ILICET. HEN first the rose-light creeps into my room My heart awakes, and sighs with its old pain, Renews that wild desire that is my doom. To free myself from him, I rise and go, Down terrace-paths below, Whence watered gardens lead by winding ways To that green haunt and bay-environed maze, Where, in these summer days, She early walks whose soul attracts me so. Fool and forgetful! Shall I cool desire To his own brand for setting hearts on fire? C O fool! to dream that what began with pain Where hopeless longing knows that all is vain. EDMUND W. GOSSE. GATHERED ROSES. NLY a bee made prisoner, Caught in a gathered rose ! Was he not 'ware, a flower so fair Only a heart made prisoner, Going out free no more! Was he not 'ware, a face so fair Must have been gathered before? F. W. BOURDILLON. A WORM WITHIN THE ROSE. A ROSE, but one, none other rose had I, A rose, one rose, and this was wondrous fair, sky, One rose, my rose, that sweetened all my air- One rose, a rose to gather by and by, ALFRED TENNYSON. |