The Song of the Rose.

The Song of the Rose.
336.5

No beautiful notice have I on the hiш.
No pictures to hang in my halls.
But never a painter could match with his skill,
The roses abloom on my walls.

Chorus-
Then sing we a song of the rose,
A song that is tender and true,
She wears her red robes, like the daintiest green,
All gleaming with jewels of dew.

When down the green valley in purple and gold
The morning comes dewy and bright.
I look from my window to see them unfold
Their buds at the kiss of the light.

And when at the evening my inbor is o’er.
And shadows grow long on the lea,
The breath of the roses floats in at the door,
As if they were talking to me.