Roses

Harold, on a summer day,
Gave me roses for my hair,—
Roses red, and roses white,
As if pale with Love's despair.

White ones for my brow, he said,
Red to blush beside my cheek,—
And a bud to whisper me
Something that he dared not speak.

Ah, that summer day is over,
And its brightness comes not back:
Harold's roses something held
Other roses seemed to lack.

Blossoms bloom along my path
Red and white as those were then,—
But the words that Harold spoke
I can never hear again.