In my Autumn garden I was fain
To mourn among my scattered roses;
Alas for that last rosebud which uncloses
To Autumn’s languid sun and rain
When all the world is on the wane!
;;Which has not felt the sweet constraint of June,
;;Nor heard the nightingale in tune.
Broad-faced asters by my garden walk,
;;You are but coarse compared with roses:
;;More choice, more dear that rosebud which uncloses
Faint-scented, pinched, upon its stalk,
That least and last which cold winds balk;
;;A rose it is though least and last of all,
;;A rose to me though at the fall.