A Yellow Rose

The old gate clicks, and down the walk, Between clove-pink and hollyhock, Still young of face though gray of lock, Among her garden's flowers she goes At evening's close, Deep in her hair a yellow rose. The old house shows one gable-peak Above its trees; and sage and leek Blend with the rose their scents: the creek, Leaf-hidden, past the garden flows, That on it snows Pale petals of the yellow rose. The crickets pipe in dewy damps; And everywhere the fireflies' lamps Flame like the lights of Faery camps; While, overhead, the soft sky shows One star that glows, As, in gray hair, a yellow rose. There is one spot she seeks for, where The roses make a fragrant lair, A spot where once he kissed her hair, And told his love, as each one knows, Each flower that blows, And pledged it with a yellow rose. The years have turned her dark hair gray Since that glad day: and still, they say, She keeps the tryst as on that day; And through the garden softly goes, At evening's close, Wearing for him that yellow rose.