A MEMORY.
It was a bright October day—
Ah, well do I remember!
One rose yet bore the bloom of May,
Down toward the dark December.
One rose that near the lattice grew,
With fragrance floating round it:
Incarnardined, it blooms anew
In dreams of her who found it.
Pale, withered rose, bereft and shorn
Of all thy primal glory,
All leafless now, thy piercing thorn
Reveals a sadder story.
It was a dreary winter day;
Too well do I remember!
They bore her frozen form away,
And gave her to December!
There were no perfumes on the air,
No bridal blossoms round her,
Save one pale lily in her hair
To tell how pure Death found her.
The thistle on the summer air
Hath shed its iris glory,
And thrice the willows weeping there
Have told the seasons' story,
Since she, who bore the blush of May,
Down towards the dark December
Pass'd like the thorn-tree's bloom away,
A pale, reluctant ember.