Here, in a land where hardly a rose is,
Silkiest blossoms of broidered flowers
Brush my cheek as each tired eye closes,
Haunt my sleep through the desolate hours.
Roses never of nature’s making,
Roses loved for a rose-red night,
Roses visioned at dawn-light’s breaking
Veiling a bosom as roses white!
Why does the ghost of you linger and stay with me—
Ghost of the rose-buds that perfumed our bed,