Parting

The golden hinges of the year have turned— Spring, and the summer, and the harvest time Have come, and gone; and on the threshold stands The withered Winter, stretching forth his hands To take my rose from me;—which he will wear On his bleak bosom, all the bitter months While the earth and I remain disconsolate. My rose!—with the soft vesture of her leaves, Gathered all round the secrets of her heart In crimson fragrant folds,—within her bower Of fair fresh green, guarded with maiden thorns. O withered Winter! keep my blossom safe! Thou shalt not kiss her with thy blue cold lips, Nor pinch her in thy bony grip,—nor drop More than one tiny sparkling diamond, From thy cold carcanet, upon her cheek: But lay soft snow fur round her—and above Her precious head, make thy skies blue and clear, And set her in the sun;—O withered Winter! Be tender of my rose, and harm her not. Alas, my flower, farewell!