HE fair, frail blooms which loved the sun Grew faint at touch of cold, And, chilled and pale, fell one by one Dead in the dust and mould.
TRUE.
HE fair, frail blooms which loved the sun Grew faint at touch of cold, And, chilled and pale, fell one by one Dead in the dust and mould. But here, where down the dim, wet walks The sere leaves whirl and beat, One rose looks through the bare brown stalks, And charms the air with sweet.
As one brave heart, when all the truth On carth seems dead or last, Still keeps the faith and fire of youth, And smiles in spite of past.
Ah, though the friends I once held dear Are fro; or false, or flown, I need not grieve, for you are here, My hope, my love, my own!