Thomas Hood
It was not in the Winter
     Our loving lot was cast;
It was the time of roses—
     We pluck’d them as we pass’d!
 
That churlish season never frown’d
     On early lovers yet:
O no—the world was newly crown’d
     With flowers when first we met!
 
’Twas twilight, and I bade you go,
     But still you held me fast;
It was the time of roses—
     We pluck’d them as we pass’d!
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