OF THE DAYS GONE BY 



Old garden roses hedged it in, 

 Bedropt with roses waxen-white, 

 Well satisfied with dew and light, 

 And careless to be seen. 



Long years ago, it might befall, 

 When all the garden flowers were trim, 

 The grave old gardener prided him 

 On these the most of all, 



Some Lady, stately overmuch, 

 Here moving with a silken noise, 

 Has blushed beside them at the voice 

 That likened her to such. 



Or these, to make a diadem, 

 She often may have plucked and twined ; 

 Half-smiling as it came to mind, 

 That few would look at them. 



Oh, little thought that Lady proud, 



A child would watch her fair white rose, 



When buried lay her whiter brows, 



And silk was changed for shroud ! 



Nor thought that gardener (full of scorns 

 For men unlearn'd and simple phrase) 

 A child would bring it all its praise, 

 By creeping through the thorns ! 



To me upon my low moss seat, 

 Though never a dream the roses sent 

 Of science or love's compliment, 

 I ween they smelt as sweet. 



