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THE SUMMER-TIME IS IN THE ROSE
THE summer-time is in the rose;
'T is but to breathe once more
The perfume that its leaves enclose
The summer to restore.
But how should summer bloom for him
Who must its rose resign?
A winter, changeless in his heart,
Repeats:—"Not mine!—not mine!"
Ah, sorrowful to give in vain—
To love when hope is not!
To cover with a smile the pain
That will not be forgot!
To journey to a living spring
Of water, welling sweet,—
To long as with a desert thirst,
Yet turn away the feet!
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