Which shall I cull from the garden-bed
To greet my love on this very night?
There are roses white, there are roses red.
The red should say what I would have said;
Ah! how they blush in the evening light!
Which shall I choose to wreathe my head?
The white are pale as the snow new-spread,
Pure as young eyes and half as bright;
There are roses white, there are roses red.
Roses white, from the heaven dew-fed,
Roses red for a passion's plight;
Which shall I choose to wreathe my head?
Summer twilight is almost fled,
Say, dear love! have I chosen right?
There are roses white, there are roses red,
All twined together to wreathe my head.
L. S. Bevington.
A VACATION VILLANELLE.
O Halcyon hours of happy holiday,
When frets of function and of fashion flee,
(Sweet is the sunshine, soft the summer's sway).
Ye whisper 'welcome' to our wandering way,
And give a gracious greeting to our glee,
O halcyon hours of happy holiday!
Or pacing prairies in pursuit of prey,
Or sailing silent on a southern sea,
(Sweet is the sunshine, soft the summer's sway),
Or gliding giddy down some glacier gray,
Or joining in a German jubilee,
O halcyon hours of happy holiday!