  (To Mercy.) This is the month of roses, dear, The sweetest time of all the year. Field, woodland, roadside,—everywhere, Is clad in crimson beauty rare. The very earth beneath our feet Is covered with their petals sweet; Where'er we go the balmy air Is laden with sweet fragrance rare. And now and then, dear, we may see The cheerful, busy little bee From out this dainty, crimson flow'r, Sip nectar for his winter store. The sky is blue, and there and here We see a fleecy cloud appear; Nor tongue nor pen can e'er portray The beauties of this sweet June day. In mem'ry, dear, it takes me back Along life's sunny backward track Just thirteen years, to a sweet June day And a little cot, not far away, Where roses bloomed, and song of bird Throughout the livelong day was heard; But never was this song so gay As on that blissful, bright June day. Within that little nut-brown cot, On earth the dearest, sweetest spot, A wee pink flower, both sweet and gay, First opened to the light of day. As time flew by on fairy wing, This wee pink flower, this dainty thing, Of all our love demanded part, And twined its tendrils 'round each heart. Sometimes, without, 'twas dark and dreary, But all within this cot was cheery, Because this little floweret gay Chased gloom and shadows all away. This dainty thing, so dear to me, This little flower I have in thee. 'Neath blue June sky and rainbow shower, Long live earth's purest, sweetest flower. |
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