  IT was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast; It was the time of roses,— We plucked them as we passed. That churlish season never frowned On earthly lovers yet: Oh, no! the world was newly crowned With flowers when first we met! ’Twas twilight, and I bade you go, But still you held me fast; It was the time of roses,— We plucked them as we passed. What else could peer thy glowing cheek, That tears began to stud? And when I asked the like of Love, You snatched a damask bud; And oped it to the dainty core, Still glowing to the last. It was the time of roses,— We plucked them as we passed. Thomas Hood. |
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