[Written for the Sentinel.]


I tell the toll of human weal and woe,
While the wing-footed ages come and go:
When the night dews are shaken,
Soon as the sun doth waken,
Hasting his footstep o'er the twinkling sea
He seeks the rose and me.

I love the rose long as the crimson morn
Shall leave his blush upon the bud new-born—
Long as the sun doth trace
His finger on my face,
I to the rose have vowed a changeless vow
To love as I love now.

I mark my tablet by the measuring skies,
But watch the hour the rose is born or dies:
What though within my breast
The heartless years have pressed
Their myriad memories? I forget them all
Soon as the rose doth call.

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December 16, 1911

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