THE night before I sailed for Spain
We stood together, Rose and I,
Outside the ball-room, on the stairs,
And looked and spoke the last good-by.
I begged a flower, to me more fair
Than any other flower that blows.
With laughing eyes she bade me choose
A dainty rosebud, or a rose.
"Give me the bud," I quickly cried,
"No full-developed flower for me.
Youth, youth alone is fair; soon fades
The blossom of maturity."
Two years are past, and I return
To find my little rose in bloom;
A glorious creature, nobly wrought,
The handiwork of Nature's loom.
Another ball, and once again
We sit together, she and I;
I urge my suit, and show as proof
The faded bud of days gone by.
A blush, a sigh, a dainty hand;
The drooping eyelids half unclose:
"Why, Dick, you always used to say
You 'd never choose a full-blown rose."
K.
Read more in News
The Cricket Eleven.
