Old Gardens - Poem by Arthur Upson
The white rose tree that spent its musk
For lovers' sweeter praise,
The stately walks we sought at dusk,
Have missed these many days.
Again, with once-familiar feet,
I tread the old parterre--
But, ah, its bloom is now less sweet
Than when thy face was there.
I hear the birds of evening call;
I take the wild perfume;
I pluck a rose--to let it fall
And perish in the gloom.
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