I

No more to strip the roses from The rose-sprays of her porch’s place!-- I dreamed last night that I was home Kissing a rose--her face.

I must have smiled in sleep--who knows?-- The rose-aroma filled the lane; I saw her white hand’s lifted rose That welcomed home again.

And yet when I awoke--so wan, My old face wet with icy tears-- Somehow, it seems, she was not gone, Though dead now thirty years.