I

No more to strip the roses from The rose-boughs of her porch's place!-- I dreamed last night that I was home Beside 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 called me home again.

And yet when I awoke--so wan, An old face wet with icy tears!-- Somehow, it seems, sleep had misdrawn A love gone thirty years.