English poem
A CHARADE.
by Grace Greenwood (1823–1904)
My first the softest, loveliest grace Nature to beauty gives; While love and truth and modesty Stay in the heart, it lives.
My second is so like my first, My first its shadow seems; It sweetens all the sunny day, All night in fragrance dreams.
My whole, sweet one, I love to trace, Soft glowing in that tell-tale face, When Arthur whispers in your ear Those "nothings" I must never hear: Ah! then it comes, all warm and clear, Your answering blush, Rose, my dear.
Blush-rose.