Classic Poem

I MADE another garden, yea,
— For my new Love:
I left the dead rose where it lay
— And set the new above.
Why did my Summer not begin?
— Why did my heart not haste?
My old Love came and walked therein,
— And laid the garden waste.

She entered with her weary smile,
— Just as of old;
She looked around a little while
— And shivered with the cold:
Her passing touch was death to all,
— Her passing look a blight;
She made the white rose-petals fall,
— And turned the red rose white.

Her pale robe clinging to the grass
— Seemed like a snake
That bit the grass and ground, alas!
— And a sad trail did make.
She went up slowly to the gate,
— And there, just as of yore,
She turned back at the last to wait
— And say farewell once more.