Page:Cheskian Anthology.pdf/127

 ! fond dream! that maid is dead—

The gard'ner plucks a rose,

And pluck'd—it fades, it hangs its head,

And pale and paler grows.

a rose—that rose I plac'd

Upon my breast—the gem,

My eager breast a moment grac'd,

Then sunk upon its stem.

dost thou come—thou golden dove,

Thy wings are weary—thy plumes are wet—

Whence, wanderer! dost thou come?

"All over the seas I sought my love,

And I am hasting—hasting yet,

To our own—our mountain home."