In the Garden.

WITH rose and orange scents this place was laden;
The summer air was quivering thick with birds.
In these cool garden walks I met the maiden
Whose beauty robs her praisers’ tongues of words.

A crimson rose was in her hand. She held it
Close to my lips,— in truth, a flower divine;
But I looked in her eyes and scarcely smelled it,
But took the flower and hand in both of mine.

These are the shades where arm in arm for hours
We walked,— brief hours of throbbing pain and bliss.
Here drank love’s bitter-sweet, deep hid in flowers;
Here gave and took our last despairing kiss.

And where is she, the fair light-footed comer?
I pace these lonely garden walks in vain.
O long-lost joy! O Rose of love and summer!
That day ye bloomed will never come again!