Menella Bute Smedley


* * *


I went to look for roses
When snow was on the ground,
Alas, a wither'd thorn-bush
Was all the flowers I found!
I thought of summer-blossoms
Alight with dews of morn,
And down I sate me weeping
Beside the barren thorn.
Out spake a grey-hair'd neighbour,
O madness! not to know
The time of living roses
Is not the time of snow.
Fie on such foolish comfort!
It never dried one tear;
I am weeping for my roses
Because they are not here.






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