Years since, I know not where, I read the lines;
Poem and poet both are clean forgot,
Except that, garnered somewhere 'mid the dust
Of boyhood tales, and old disjointed rhymes,
In lilting cadence lingers this refrain:
Roses, roses, old-time roses,
Redder to blush, and fresher to blow;
But they bloom no more in the weed-grown closes,
The roses of Long-ago.

And now, in winter, whilst the silent frost
Layer on layer wraps a winding-sheet
About the window mullion, and decks
The pane with cloth of silver, in the room
A single taper flaring yellowly
Makes all the darkness darker, as I brood
Of shadows, crouching near the ingle-nook,
From waking past the border-realm of sleep,
And back again to waking shadow-land.
And through my dream sings on the same refrain:
Roses, roses, old-time roses,
Redder to blush, and fresher to blow;
But they bloom no more in the weed-grown closes,
The roses of Long-ago.

I seem to stand beside the garden-walk,
Before the low-set window; black and tall
The towers loom against the flaming west.
There blows a fuller fragrance off the limes,
Hushed from their mid-day murmur, and beneath
Rises a spice of tangled mignonette:
And She is at the window: folded arms,
Head turned to northward, as to bring to view
The fringe of that great sunset; leaning there
In steadfast silence, till the glory fade,
And one by one steal out the waiting stars.
Wide thoughtful eyes, deep-lighted from a soul
Wistful to dare or suffer;—parted lips,
That ask, “What means this Life that lies before?”
Fair breast that rises rhythmically calm,
Unknowing of the outer passion-storm;—
Young angel face, whose outlined innocence
Might bow Desire in worship:—silent too
I stand unseen; I dare not break the charm
Of silence, pilgrim by that silent shrine,
Though Love's wild tumult rages through my heart,
And all his music surges in my ears.
Roses, roses, old-time roses,
Redder to blush, and fresher to blow,
But they bloom no more in the weed-grown closes,
The roses of Long-ago.

A deeper gloom enshrouds the lonely room,
As darkling shadows flit from wall to wall,
And cross the low-beamed ceiling, from the flame
That flickers in the socket ere it die.
Out in the night I hear the crackling frost,
And here within, in tuneless monotone
Seems crooning on the voice of weary Age:
Roses, roses, old-time roses,
Redder to blush, and fresher to blow;
But they bloom no more in the weed-grown closes,
The roses of Long-ago.

Once more the drifting vapour-clouds unveil
A picture of the Past;—the homely sound
Of household tasks, and cheerful country toil:—
Two little golden heads close-nestled, eyes
Up-glancing brightly mischievous, a spring
Of brimming laughter welling on the brink
Of lips like flowers, small caressing hands
Tight locked, a chord of eager joyous tones
Attuned divinely; down the corridor
A fearless clash of other little hands
On quavering keys, while through the swaying dance,
That halts and breaks for all that childish care,
A restful music hisses from the urn. . . .
Roses, roses, old-time roses,
Redder to blush, and fresher to blow,
But they bloom no more in the weed-grown closes,
The roses of Long-ago.

High flares the taper like a torch, and dies.
Who groaned there? Speak … Close coiled beside my feet
My brave old dog, the last of all my friends,
Lies shivering … And I am very cold,
Cold heart and limb, as though some dead cold hand
Were clutching me … and They are dead,—are dead.
Roses, roses, old-time roses,
Redder to blush, and fresher to blow,
But they bloom no more in the weed-grown closes,
The roses of Long-ago.