LEAFLESS HOURS. HE pale sun, through the spectral wood, Only my shadow points before me, Only sad memories murmur o'er me From every leafless bough: And out of the nest of last year's Redbreast Is stolen the very snow. ROBERT, LORD LYTTON. H roses for the flush of youth, But pluck an ivy branch for me Oh violets for the grave of youth, And bay for those dead ere their prime; Give me the withered leaves I chose Before in the old time. CHRISTINA ROSSETTI. I. OR me no roseate garlands twine,` But wear them, Dearest, in my stead; Time has a whiter hand than thine, And lays it on my head. II. Enough to know thy place on earth AUBREY DE VERE. SIR HENRY TAYLOR. CXXII. I BRING a garland for your head, Of blossoms fresh and fair, My own hands wound their white and red Here is a lily, here a rose, A warm narcissus that scarce blows, So crowned and chapleted with flowers, For after brief and summer hours Comes autumn with a shroud ;— Though fragrant as a flower you lie, You and your garland, by and by, Will fade and wither up and die! EDMUND W. GOSSE. P THE FALLING ROSE. ASS, falling rose ! Not now the glory of the spring is round thee; blows; Pallid and chill the autumn's mists have found thee; Pass, falling rose ! Pass, falling rose! Where are the songs that wooed thy glad unfolding? Only the south the wood-dove's soft wail knows; Far southern eaves the swallow's nest are holding; Pass, falling rose ! Pass, falling rose ! Linger the blooms to birth thy glory wooing? Long, long, their leaves the dark earth have been strewing; Pass, falling rose ! WILLIAM COX BENNETT. |