And thus, what can we do, Poor rose and poet too, Who both antedate our mission In an unprepared season?

'Twas a yellow rose, By that south window of the little house, My cousin Romney gathered with his hand On all my birthdays, for me. save the last; And then I shook the tree too rough, too rough, For roses to stay after.

A white rosebud for a guerdon.

"For if I wait," said she, "Till time for roses be,-- For the moss-rose and the musk-rose, Maiden-blush and royal-dusk rose,-- "What glory then for me In such a company?-- Roses plenty, roses plenty And one nightingale for twenty?"

Red as a rose of Harpocrate.

O rose, who dares to name thee? No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet, But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubblewheat,-- Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee.