I ’ll not believe the dullard dark, Nor all the winds that weep, But I shall find the farthest dream That kisses me, asleep.
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O Far-off rose of long ago, An hour of sweet, an hour of red, To live, to breathe, and then to go Into the dark ere June was dead! Why say they: Roses shall return With every year as years go on? New springtime and strange bloom, my rose, And alien June; but thou art gone.
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I ’ll not believe the dullard dark, Nor all the winds that weep, But I shall find the farthest dream That kisses me, asleep.
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