UNDER THE ROSE.
In these June bowers not all in vain
I tell the secret of my woes,
For sweeter seems my murmured pain
Beneath the rose, beneath the rose.
I tell of love by Time bereft,
Of beauty that discrownëd goes,
And dare to weep the cruel theft
Beneath the rose, beneath the rose.
And moaning over hope that dies,
And love that like a beggar shows,
Still balmy grow my very sighs
Beneath the rose, beneath the rose.