WINTER ROSES.

My garden roses long ago

Have perished from the leaf-strewn walks;

Their pale, fair sisters smile no more

Upon the sweet-brier stalks.

Gone with the flower-time of my life,

Spring's violets, summer's blooming pride,

And Nature's winter and my own

Stand, flowerless, side by side.

So might I yesterday have sung;

To-day, in bleak December's noon,

Come sweetest fragrance, shapes, and hues,

The rosy wealth of June!

Bless the young bands that culled the gift,

And bless the hearts that prompted it;

If undeserved it comes, at least

It seems not all unfit.

Of old my Quaker ancestors

Had gifts of forty stripes save one;

To-day as many roses crown

The gray head of their son.

And with them, to my fancy's eye,

The fresh-faced givers smiling come,

And nine and thirty happy girls

Make glad a lonely room.

They bring the atmosphere of youth;

The light and warmth of long ago

Are in my heart, and on my cheek

The airs of morning blow.

O buds of girlhood, yet unblown,

And fairer than the gift ye chose,

For you may years like leaves unfold

The heart of Sharon's rose