The Time of Roses

IT was not in the winter
Our loving lot was cast;
It was the time of roses,—
We plucked them as we passed.

That churlish season never frowned
On earthly lovers yet:
Oh, no! the world was newly crowned
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 plucked them as we passed.

What else could peer thy glowing cheek,
That tears began to stud?
And when I asked the like of Love,
You snatched a damask bud;

And oped it to the dainty core,
Still glowing to the last.
It was the time of roses,—
We plucked them as we passed.

Thomas Hood.