A Yellow Rose

The old gate clicks, and down the walk,     Between clove-pink and hollyhock,     Still young of face though gray of lock,     Among her garden's flowers she goes     At evening's close,     Deep in her hair a yellow rose.     The old house shows one gable-peak     Above its trees; and sage and leek     Blend with the rose their scents: the creek,     Leaf-hidden, past the garden flows,     That on it snows     Pale petals of the yellow rose.     The crickets pipe in dewy damps;     And everywhere the fireflies' lamps     Flame like the lights of Faery camps;     While, overhead, the soft sky shows     One star that glows,     As, in gray hair, a yellow rose.     There is one spot she seeks for, where     The roses make a fragrant lair,     A spot where once he kissed her hair,     And told his love, as each one knows,     Each flower that blows,     And pledged it with a yellow rose.     The years have turned her dark hair gray     Since that glad day: and still, they say,     She keeps the tryst as on that day;     And through the garden softly goes,     At evening's close,     Wearing for him that yellow rose.