THE blossoms are gone from the garden,
But ’tis not of them I would speak;
I want a sweet rose for my verses
Like one that’s in somebody’s cheek.
A red rose to kiss and to fondle,
Whose leaves will not wither or die—
To gladden each moment and banish
The winter thoughts out of the sky.
I want a low ripple of music
To flow through these lines of my choice,