And when he left my garden
The roses all were red
And dyed in a fresh crimson;
Only my heart was dead.
The roses in my garden
Were white in the noonday sun;
But they were dyed with crimson
Before the day was done.
Maurice Baring [1874-
"THE LITTLE ROSE IS DUST, MY DEAR"
The little rose is dust, my dear;
The elfin wind is gone
That sang a song of silver words
And cooled our hearts with dawn.
And what is left to hope, my dear,
Or what is left to say?
The rose, the little wind and you
Have gone so far away.
Grace Hazard Conkling [18