Thomas Hood
1798-1845.
Ballad
I
I
t was not in the winter
Our loving lot was cast;
It was the time of roses,—
We plucked them as we passed;
II.
That churlish season never frowned
On early lovers yet:—
Oh, no—the world was newly crowned
With flowers when first we met!
III.
’T was twilight, and I bade you go,
But still you held me fast;
It was the time of roses,—
We plucked them as we passed.—