To rest in this queer little room;
And that’s why so tidy and clean it is kept,
The air always fragrant, the floor always swept,
For I long here to see
My sweet roses three,
As from buds into blossoms they bloom.
Then come when you may, be the sky black or blue,
The lock will unclasp as of yore;
For (unless Death should come introspecting my heart,
And break down its barriers and wrench them apart),