  It tossed its head at the wooing breeze; And the sun, like a bashful swain, Beamed on it through the waving trees With a passion all in vain,— For my rose laughed in a crimson glee, And hid in the leaves in wait for me. The honey-bee came there to sing His love through the languid hours, And vaunt of his hives, as a proud old king Might boast of his palace-towers: But my rose bowed in a mockery, And hid in the leaves in wait for me. The humming-bird, like a courtier gay, Dipped down with a dalliant song, And twanged his wings through the roundelay Of love the whole day long: Yet my rose returned from his minstrelsy And hid in the leaves in wait for me. The firefly came in the twilight dim My red, red rose to woo— Till quenched was the flame of love in him And the light of his lantern too, As my rose wept with dewdrops three And hid in the leaves in wait for me. And I said: I will cull my own sweet rose— Some day I will claim as mine The priceless worth of the flower that knows No change, but a bloom divine— The bloom of a fadeless constancy That hides in the leaves in wait for me! But time passed by in a strange disguise, And I marked it not, but lay In a lazy dream, with drowsy eyes, Till the summer slipped away, And a chill wind sang in a minor key: "Where is the rose that waits for thee?" I dream to-day, o'er a purple stain Of bloom on a withered stalk, Pelted down by the autumn rain In the dust of the garden-walk, That an Angel-rose in the world to be Will hide in the leaves in wait for me. |
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