WHITE ROSES. 8l 



A little maid whose tender youth, . 

 And innocence, and simple truth, 



Had won my heart with qualities 



That far surpassed her beauty, 

 And held me with unconscious ease 



Enthralled of love and duty ; 

 Whose modest graces all were met 

 And symbolled in my mignonette. 



I passed outside her garden-gate, 



And left her proudly smiling ; 

 Her roses bloomed too late, too late, 



She said, for my beguiling. 

 I wore instead — and wear it yet — 

 The single spray of mignonette. 



Its fragrance greets me unaware, 



A vision clear recalling 

 Of shy, sweet eyes, and drooping hair 



In girlish tresses falling. 

 And little hands so white and fine 

 That timidly creep into mine ; 



