Classic Poem

“A NOTHER year,” she said, “another year
These roses I have watched with so much care,
Have watched and tended without pain or fear,
Shall bud and bloom for me exceeding fair,—
Another year,” she said, “another year.”

“Another year,” she said, “another year,
My life, perhaps, may bud and bloom again,
May bud and bloom like these red roses here,
Unlike them, tended with regret and pain,—
Another year, perhaps, another year.

“Another year, ah yes, another year,
When bloom my roses, all my life shall bloom;
When summer comes, my summer too 'll be here,
And I shall cease to wander in this gloom,—
Another year, ah yes, another year.

“For ah, another year, another year,
I 'll set my life in richer, stronger soil,
And prune the weeds away that creep too near,
And watch and tend with never-ceasing toil,—
Another year, ah yes, another year.”

Another year, alas! another year,
The roses all lay withering ere their prime,
Poor blighted buds, with scanty leaves and sere,
Drooping and dying long before their time,—
Another year, alas! another year.

And ah, another year, another year,
Low, like the blighted dying buds, she lay,
Whose voice had prophesied without a fear,
Whose hand had trimmed the rose-tree day by day,
To bloom another year, another year.