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I. on the roses I offer to thee,— Every leaf that uncloses says something from me; They come from our garden—that summer world where The soft blossoms harden to cherry and pear, Where fruit and where flowers together unfold, And the morning’s bright hours call the bee to his gold!

II. On the wreath that I bind thee our summer has shone, Ah! where will it find thee—afar and alone! The walls that have bound thee are dusky and high, And dark roofs are round thee that shut out the sky,— But the roses I gather will bring thee again Our valley’s soft weather, its sunshine and rain.

III. When art thou returning—how long wilt thou roam! The wealth thou art earning is not worth thy home. The lark’s lightest singing awakes me from sleep That thine image was bringing—I waken and weep! By the prayers that attend thee—the fond hearts that yearn, Let the roses I send, say—“return, love, return!”