Edith Nesbit

The December Rose

   HERE’S a rose that blows for Chloe,
      Fair as ever a rose in June was,
   Now the garden’s silent, snowy,
      Where the burning summer noon was.

   In your garden’s summer glory
      One poor corner, shelved and shady,
   Told no rosy, radiant story,
      Grew no rose to grace its lady.

   What shuts sun out shuts out snow too;
      From his nook your secret lover
   Shows what slighted roses grow to
      When the rose you chose is over.