To A Rose
by Frank Dempster Sherman
Go, Rose, and in her golden hair
You shall forget the garden soon;
The sunshine is a captive there
And crowns her with a constant noon.
And when your spicy odor goes,
And fades the beauty of your bloom,
Think what a lovely hand, O Rose,
Shall place your body in the tomb!
Source:Lyrics For A Lute
Boston and New York, Houghton, Mifflin, and Company