Poem by Emily Jane Pfeiffer

In the Riviera

The rose's leaves are red
Upon the April blue,
No single leaflet shed
Of all the sun shines through;
The rose's self is white,
Her stem is lithe and tall,
Where languid with delight
She overlooks the wall.
I am not like the rose,—
My May and June are past,
And every wind that blows
Takes leaves that are my last,
And yet, I know not why,
No gladdest, greenest thing
So inly feels as I
The passion of the spring.

1. A Ballad of the “Thuner-See”
2. The Soudan
3. Beating the Air
4. To a Fledgling Robin
5. A Plea

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