To hope was not to know.

Just when the red June Roses blow
I plucked her one,--a month ago:
Its half-blown crimson to eclipse,
I laid it on her smiling lips;
The balmy fragrance of the south
Drew sweetness from her sweeter mouth.
Swiftly do golden hours creep,--
To hold is not to keep.

The red June Roses now are past,
This very day I broke the last--
And now its perfumed breath is hid,
With her, beneath a coffin-lid;
There will its petals fall apart,
And wither on her icy heart:-
At three red Roses' cost
My world was gained and lost.




VERSE: MY PICTURE GALLERY


I.

You write and think of me, my friend, with pity;
While you are basking in the light of Rome,