The Rose She Wore In Winter


O ROSE, so subtly sweet!
What dost thou in the snow —
The time of frost and sleet,
When roses should not blow —
Playing at summer so?

When we that beauty meet,
Which nightingales in June
For love and bliss entreat,
With what cold, wintry rune
Shall we thy praise entune?

My Rose, so subtly sweet,
Thy rose-red lips I kiss;
I kneel at thy dear feet,
Dear Rose, and do not miss
The summer's by-gone bliss.
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