Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/1033

 We, in the ages lying In the buried past of the earth, Built Nineveh with our sighing, And Babel itself with our mirth; And o'erthrew them with prophesying To the old of the new world's worth; For each age is a dream that is dying, Or one that is coming to birth.

829. Song

I made another garden, yea, For my new Love: I left the dead rose where it lay And set the new above. Why did my Summer not begin? Why did my heart not haste? My old Love came and walk'd therein, And laid the garden waste.

She enter'd with her weary smile, Just as of old; She look'd around a little while And shiver'd with the cold: Her passing touch was death to all, Her passing look a blight; She made the white rose-petals fall, And turn'd the red rose white.

Her pale robe clinging to the grass Seem'd like a snake That bit the grass and ground, alas! And a sad trail did make.