YOU came to see me yesterday,
And plucked a rose-bud on your way,
Do you remember?
From the sweet bush beside your gate,
I did not know it bloomed as late
As dull November.
To-day the world is grey and old,
Around me, with the fog and cold,
A dark night closes.
And I, with thoughts akin to tears,
Travel through many bygone years
Marked by your roses.
For blossoms all will soon be done,
My latter days are nearly won
For quiet reflection.
And I am tired, and you are sad,
For all the love you might have had,
And sweet protection.
But dear, from your November rose
To-night a deeper memory grows,
Than friend's or lover's.
Deep as the knowledge is to be,
When my last slumber carefully
The brown earth covers.