Poetry Archives

It was not in the Winter
  Our loving lot was cast;
It was the time of roses—
  We pluck’d them as we pass’d!

That churlish season never frown’d
  On early lovers yet:
O no—the world was newly crown’d
  With flowers when first we met!

’Twas twilight, and I bade you go,
  But still you held me fast;
It was the time of roses—
  We pluck’d them as we pass’d!