ROSE-BUDS.
AFTER THE FRENCH OF BÉRANGER.
O timid rose-buds, why delay your bloom,
The frost of Time is chill upon my hair;
Unclose your petals, shed your sweet perfume,
Like vesper incense on the evening air.
Gladden my withered heart while yet you may,
A rock is hid beneath each glowing wave;
The ardent sun, wooing your lips to-day,
To-morrow’s noon may mock your poet’s grave.
And rose-buds, ere their time may pass away;
The worm is there, an envious wind may blight;
How many rose-buds have I seen decay,
While thistles flaunt their colors in the light.
I pluck nor buds, nor full-blown roses now,
Your tender charms from me have naught to fear;
No rosy wreath awaits this wrinkled brow,
Let regal youth the crown and sceptre bear.
Weary of strife, of cold, vain theorems,
Of counting spots upon the sun’s fair face,
Would that a bed beneath your friendly stems
Were hollowed for my final resting-place.
When the Great Reaper comes, let me be found
Among the roses, fresh and pure as truth;
Their perfume shed above me and around,
Whispering my failing heart of Love and Youth.
O timid rose-buds, why delay your bloom,
The frost of Time is chill upon my hair;
Unclose your petals, shed your sweet perfume
Like vesper incense on the evening air.