ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY

We, in the ages lying

In the buried past of the earth, Built Nineveh with our sighing, 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

T 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 entered 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.

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