Paper Roses In The Rain
How distant now those tender hours seem,
When life was but a half-wrought dream...
When youth, with all its golden art,
Unfolded petals round the heart.
Ah, memory, thou cruel friend,
That bids me walk where summers end;
Thou lead’st me back through mists of years,
To find my joy dissolved in tears.
I see once more that shadowed lane,
Where first we sat amidst the rain;
The earth was soft, the sky was gray,
And yet the world was ours that day.
Beneath one trembling parasol,
Two souls forgot the world and all;
The rain made music, sweet and low,
Upon the leaves that bent below.
With clumsy hands, yet full of grace,
I shaped thee roses...paper lace...
Their whiteness pale, their scent but air,
Yet thou didst take them, unaware
That all my heart was folded there.
Thy laughter rang...a silver chime...
That stilled the restless march of time;
And when thy lips, in shy delight,
Pressed soft my cheek, the world grew bright.
We wandered where the birches lean,
Through woodland paths of tender green;
The brook would chatter at our feet,
The air itself seemed warm and sweet.
O innocence! O fleeting fire!
What mortal hand can long aspire
To keep thee fast, when years conspire
To dim thy bloom, to hush thy lyre?
The days rolled on; as seasons must,
They turned our silver dreams to dust.
The woods grew silent, overgrown,
Each path reclaimed, each echo flown.
We parted...not with rage or blame,
But with the hush no words could name.
She left, and with her went the spring;
No lark again would dare to sing.
Yet oft, when twilight veils the plain,
And soft descends the gentle rain,
I walk once more that lonely lane.
The air is cold, the hour is late...
Still, in my hand, I feel the weight
Of fragile blooms that time hath slain...
My paper roses in the rain.
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