It is mid-afternoon. Long, long ago Each morning-glory sheathed the slender horn It blew so gayly on the hills of morn, And fainted in the noontide's fervid glow.
Gone are the dew-drops from the rose's heart-- Gone with the freshness of the early hours, The songs that filled the air with silver showers, The lovely dreams that were of morn a part.
Yet still in tender light the garden lies; The warm, sweet winds are whispering soft and low; Brown bees and butterflies flit to and fro; The peace of heaven is in the o'erarching skies.
And here be four-o'clocks, just opening wide Their many colored petals to the sun, As glad to live as if the evening dun Were far away, and morning had not died!
A house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master, With doors that none but the wind ever closes, Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster; It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses.
I pass by that way in the gloaming with Mary; "I wonder," I say, "who the owner of those is." "Oh, no one you know," she answers me airy, "But one we must ask if we want any roses."
So we must join hands in the dew coming coldly There in the hush of the wood that reposes, And turn and go up to the open door boldly, And knock to the echoes as beggars for roses.
"Pray, are you within there, Mistress Who-were-you?" 'Tis Mary that speaks and our errand discloses. "Pray are you within there? Bestir you, bestir you! 'Tis summer again; there's two come for roses.
"A word with you, that of the singer recalling-- Old Herrick: a saying that every man knows is A flower unplucked is but left to the falling, And nothing is gained by not gathering roses."
We do not loosen our hands' intertwining (Not caring so very much what she supposes), There when she comes on us mistily shining And grants us by silence the boon of her roses.
In a black oak chest all carven, We found it laid, Still faintly sweet of Lavender, An old brocade. With that perfume came a vision, A garden fair, Enclosed by great yew hedges; A Lady there, Is culling fresh blown lavender, And singing goes Up and down the alleys green-- A human rose. The sun glints on her auburn hair And brightens, too, The silver buckles that adorn Each little shoe. Her 'kerchief and her elbow sleeves Are cobweb lace; Her gown, it is our old brocade, Worn with a grace. Methinks I hear its soft frou-frou, And see the sheen Of its dainty pink moss-rose buds, Their leaves soft green, On a ground of palest shell pink, In garlands laid; But long dead the Rose who wore it-- The old brocade.