Thomas Bailey Aldrich [1837-1907]
OLD GARDENS
The white rose tree that spent its musk
For lovers' sweeter praise,
The stately walks we sought at dusk,
Have missed thee many days.
Again, with once-familiar feet,
I tread the old parterre—
But, ah, its bloom is now less sweet
Than when thy face was there.
I hear the birds of evening call;
I take the wild perfume;
I pluck a rose—to let it fall
And perish in the gloom.
Arthur Upson [1877-1908]
FERRY HINKSEY
Beyond the ferry water
That fast and silent flowed,
She turned, she gazed a moment,
Then took her onward road