But I — I saw that garden, with its one treasure 

 The tiny moss-rose, tiny even by childhood's measure, 

 And the long morning shadow of the dusty laurel. 

 And a boy and a girl beneath it, flushed with a childish 

 quarrel. 



She wept for one little bud : but he, outreaching 



The hand of brotherly right, would take it for all her 



beseeching : 

 And she flung her arms about him, and gave like a 



sister, 

 And laughed at her own tears, and wept again when he 



kissed her. 



So the rose is mine long since, and whenever I find it 

 And drink again the sharp sweet scent of the moss 



behind it, 

 I remember the tears of a child, and her love and her 



laughter. 

 And the morning shadows of youth and the night that 



fell thereafter. 



HENRY NEWBOLT. 



A 



SONNET 



ROSE as fair as ever saw the North, 

 Grew in a little garden all alone ; 

 A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth, 

 Nor fairer garden yet was never known : 

 The maidens danc'd about it mom and noon, 

 And learned bards of it their ditties made ; 

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