“RENCONTRE”

Oh, was I born too soon, my dear, or were you born too late, That I am going out the door while you come in the gate? For you the garden blooms galore, the castle is en fête; You are the coming guest, my dear,—for me the horses wait.

I know the mansion well, my dear, its rooms so rich and wide; If you had only come before I might have been your guide, And hand in hand with you explore the treasures that they hide; But you have come to stay, my dear, and I prepare to ride.

Then walk with me an hour, my dear, and pluck the reddest rose Amid the white and crimson store with which your garden glows,— A single rose,—I ask no more of what your love bestows; It is enough to give, my dear,—a flower to him who goes.

The House of Life is yours, my dear, for many and many a day, But I must ride the lonely shore, the Road to Far Away: So bring the stirrup-cup and pour a brimming draught, I pray, And when you take the road, my dear, I'll meet you on the way.