WHEN the buds began to burst,
Long ago, with Rose the First
I was walking; joyous then
Far above all other men,
Til before us up there stood
Britonferry s oaken wood,
Whispering “Happy as thou art,
Happiness and thou must part.”
Many summers have gone by
Since a Second Rose and I
(Rose from that same stem) have told
This and other tales of old.
She upon her wedding-day
Carried home my tenderest lay;
From her lap I now have heard
Gleeful, chirping, Rose the Third.
Not for her this hand of mine
Rhyme with nuptial wreath shall twine;
Cold and torpid it must lie,
Mute the tongue, and closed the eye.