  When melts at last the lingering snow In sunny days of May or June, Amid the velvet mosses grow Shy roses, fragrant-smelling. A fated sisterhood is theirs, They sigh their souls out wistfully; No bee makes love to them or hears Their tender love a-telling. They dream, perhaps, of distant lands, (O lands, that seem as far-off spheres;) Of love-lit eyes and tender hands That pluck far happier roses. But while they dream the days pass by And August comes with ebon nights, And sombre is September's sky— And then their sad life closes. |
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