126 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS 



In gardens you may note amid the dearth, 

 The crocus breaking earth ; 



And near the snowdrop's tender white and green, 

 The violet in its screen. 



But many gleams and shadows need must pass 

 Along the budding grass, 



And weeks go by, before the enamoured South 

 Shall kiss the rose's mouth. 



Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn 

 In the sweet airs of morn ; 

 One almost looks to see the very street 

 Grow purple at his feet. 



At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by, 

 And brings, you know not why, 

 A feeling as when eager crowds await 

 Before a palace gate 



Some wondrous pageant ; and you scarce would start, 



If from a beech's heart, 



A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say, 



" Behold me ! I am May ! " 



HENBY TIMEOD. 



BECAUSE THE ROSE MUST FADE 



BECAUSE the rose must fade, 

 Shall I not love the rose ? 

 Because the summer shade 







Passes when winter blows, 

 Shall I not rest me there 

 In the cool air ? 



