But ’tis not of them I would speak;

I want a sweet rose for my verses

Like one that’s in somebody’s cheek.

A red rose to kiss and to fondle,

Whose leaves will not wither or die—

To gladden each moment and banish

The winter thoughts out of the sky.

I want a low ripple of music

To flow through these lines of my choice,

Like a zephyr that moved through the summer,

Now dwelling in somebody’s voice;

A song that will be full of fragrance

So sweet that its magic of words

Will bring back the balm of the June time,

Its memories glad, and the birds.

The skies are so sunless and dreary,

Unless I can find a deep blue

To mix with the clouds of November

They’ll still wear the dark, sober hue;

But memory shows a bright heaven

Reflected in somebody’s eye,

And, thinking to-day of its beauty,

The grey becomes blue in the sky.

My dear little friend of the summer,

Did you think in the meshes of song

Your sweet, rosy face would be tangled

By a memory cunning and strong?

That the eyes looking now on this pattern

Would find it so easy to trace?

And delight as I do in its beauty—

The beauty of somebody’s face?