A Rose Lover
Do thou, my rose, incline
Thy heart to mine.
If love be real
Ah, whisper, whisper low
That I at last may know.
Quick! breathe it now!
A sigh,—a tear,—a vow:
Oh, any lightest thing
Its cadences to sing
That loved am I, and not,
Ah, not forgot!
Frederic A. Whiting