A Rose Blooming Late in Autumn
Rose, fair rose! why dost thou bloom
So lonely here? The garden's drear,
And thou dost give thy sweet perfume
But to the unconscious air.
Veil, then, thy bloom, and guard thy sweets
Till the bright hours of spring,
For now thy blush no Philomela greets,
Nor at thy closing hour thy dirge will sing.
My Own World
I live in a dear little world of my own,
Where hope ever smiles and griefs never come;
And vines are enwreathing my own little bow'r,
That blossom and bud and are ever in flow'r.
When the wind whistles low and bright stars are shining,
'Mong roses and myrtles I soft lay reclining,
And phantoms of bliss around me then hover,
And, smiling, comes joy, and dimpled all over.
When the moon looks down through the leaves of the trees,
And the sweet breath of zephyr comes on the breeze,
Such whisp'rings of music steal through my bower,
As lightly it wooes the buds and the flow'r.
I dream that bright spirits from some far sphere
Have come in their love to visit me here;
My soul bursts its fetters and throws off its care,
To hold in the converse of spirits a share.
When morning, bright-gemm'd, through the gray dawn is stealing,
And the slumber of birds and of flow'rs is unsealing;
When the ripple of waters runs sparkling and clear,
And fresh opens the rose in the coppice-wood near;
My spirit goes forth all joyous and bright,
While the glory of day, in its splendor of light,
Bears it onward and on through the blue vault of heav'n,
Till it joins the mild hours that herald the even.
Then softly it seeks the horizon's pale verge,
Where Venus, soft pillow'd, reclines on the surge,
And, nestling 'raid rose-tints and dew-gems till dawn,
Rises buoyant and fresh with the bright coming morn.
Autumn musings, and other poems
J.B. Lippincott & co., 1874