Rosamond
IN the fragrant bright June morning, Rosamond, the queen of girls,
Down the marble doorsteps loiters, radiant with her sunny curls;
O’er the green sward through the garden passes to the river’s brink—
Throws away an old bouquet, and wonders if 't will float or sink.
Then returning through the garden, round and round the lawn she goes,
Singing, as she cuts fresh roses, she herself her world’s fair rose;
In her dainty morning-robe and straw hat shading half her face—
Picturesque in form and feature, lovely in her youth and grace;
In her hand a little dagger, sharp and glittering in the sun,
Rifling hearts of thorny bushes, cutting roses one by one,
Pink and white and blood-red crimson—some in bud and some full-blown,
There through lawn and grove and garden sings she to herself alone;
Softly sings in broken snatches some old song of Spain or France,
As she holds her roses off at full arm’s length, with sidelong glance,
Shifting groups of forms and colors; for a painter’s eye hath she,
And all beauty pleaseth her, so artist-like and fancy-free.
Now she enters her boudoir and sets her roses in a vase.
There for seven days and nights their bloom and fragrance fill the place.
When the petals droop and fade, she’ll bear them to the river’s brink;
Singing, throw them on the waves, and wonder if they’ll float or sink.
Will she bear away to-night a bunch of lovers’ rose-hearts, pray?
Set them in her vase a week—then throw them with her flowers away?
