RONDEAU.

A red, red rose, all wet with dew, With leaves of green by red shot through, And sharp, thin thorns, and scent that brings Delicious memories of lost things, A red rose, sweet—yet sad as rue.

'Twas a red rose you gave me—you Whose gifts so sacred were, and few— And that is why your lover sings A red, red rose.

I sing—with lute untuned, untrue, And worse than other lovers do, Because perplexing memory stings— Because from your green grave there springs, With your spilt life-blood coloured through, A red, red rose.