Winter Roses

    By John Greenleaf Whittier


   My garden roses long ago
   Have perished from the leaf-strewn walks;
   Their pale, fair sisters smile no more
   Upon the sweet-brier stalks.

   Gone with the flower-time of my life,
   Spring's violets, summer's blooming pride,
   And Nature's winter and my own
   Stand, flowerless, side by side.

   So might I yesterday have sung;
   To-day, in bleak December's noon,
   Come sweetest fragrance, shapes, and hues,
   The rosy wealth of June!

   Bless the young bands that culled the gift,
   And bless the hearts that prompted it;
   If undeserved it comes, at least
   It seems not all unfit.

   Of old my Quaker ancestors
   Had gifts of forty stripes save one;
   To-day as many roses crown
   The gray head of their son.

   And with them, to my fancy's eye,
   The fresh-faced givers smiling come,
   And nine and thirty happy girls
   Make glad a lonely room.

   They bring the atmosphere of youth;
   The light and warmth of long ago
   Are in my heart, and on my cheek
   The airs of morning blow.

   O buds of girlhood, yet unblown,
   And fairer than the gift ye chose,
   For you may years like leaves unfold
   The heart of Sharon's rose