Four Songs , opus 51

The rose in the garden slipped her bud,	
And she laughed in the pride of her youthful blood,	
As she thought of the Gardener standing by —	
“He is old — so old! And he soon must die!”	
 
The full Rose waxed in the warm June air,
And she spread and spread till her heart lay bare;	
And she laughed once more as she heard his tread —	
“He is older now! He will soon be dead!”	
 
But the breeze of the morning blew, and found	
That the leaves of the blown Rose strewed the ground;
And he came at noon, that Gardener old,	
And he raked them gently under the mould.	
 
And I wove the thing to a random rhyme:	
For the Rose is Beauty; the Gardener, Time.	

Alone upon the housetops to the North
I turn and watch the lightning in the sky,
The glamour of thy footsteps in the North.
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!

Below my feet the still bazar is laid,
Far, far below the weary camels lie,
The camels and the captives of thy raid.
Come back, Beloved, or I die!

My father's wife is old and harsh with years,
And drudge of all my father's house am I.
My bread is sorrow and my drink is tears.
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!

If love were what the rose is,
  And I were like the leaf,
Our lives would grow together
In sad or singing weather,
Blown fields or flowerful closes,
  Green pleasure or grey grief;
If love were what the rose is,
  And I were like the leaf.

 ... 

If you were life, my darling,
  And I your love were death,
We 'd shine and snow together
Ere March made sweet the weather
With daffodil and starling
  And hours of fruitful breath;
If you were life, my darling,
  And I your love were death.

If I were what the words are,
  And love were like the tune,
With double sound and single
Delight our lips would mingle,
With kisses glad as birds are
  That get sweet rain at noon;
If I were what the words are,
  And love were like the tune.

 ... 

Soft on the sunset sky
Bright daylight closes,
Leaving, when light doth die,
Pale hues that mingling lie,-
Ashes of roses.

When love's warm sun is set,
Love's brightness closes;
Eyes with hot tears are wet,
In hearts there linger yet
Ashes of roses.