Ballad.

A poem by Thomas Hood

It was not in the Winter
Our loving lot was cast;
It was the Time of Roses, -
We plucked them as we passed!

That churlish season never frown'd
On early lovers yet: -
Oh, no - the world was newly crown'd
With flowers when first we met!

'Twas twilight, and I bade you go,
But still you held me fast;
It was the Time of Roses, -
We pluck'd them as we pass'd. -

What else could peer thy glowing cheek,
That tears began to stud?
And when I ask'd the like of Love,
You snatched a damask bud;

And oped it to the dainty core,
Still glowing to the last. -
It was the Time of Roses, -
We plucked them as we pass'd!

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