MAUD'S ROSES.
ALONE all day in my cabin, With never a mortal to see, I look at Maud's delicate roses, And the roses look at me.
Like her they are fair and stately; Like her they are proud and sweet; And their hue seems made of her blushes, Where the roses and lilies meet.
And what is their subtle fragrance But the love that she bade them tell, Or the breath she breathed through their petals When she lingered to say farewell?
Ah! roses that stayed when she vanished, Ah! roses that smile, though she went, How you mock at the sadness of parting, With your passionless, perfect content!