Classic Poem

Our last rose left us long ago;
Then the ripe berries came and went;
The tides run high that late were low,
And midsummer is well-nigh spent.

A lonely primrose at the gate
Hangs wilted, watching for her wheels;
Lady, the lily says — 't is late,
Our high-top orchard slighted feels,

And the rank burdock spreads apace,
Fell harbor of the venomous fly,
And in the sweetbrier's wonted place
The deadly nightshade drooping by

The garden wall begins to move
Of sadness in my thought a touch, —
A fancy I would fain reprove
And dare not dwell on overmuch, —

The shadow of a passing doubt
I never uttered unto men;
'T is this, — what were my life without
Her — should she never come again!