BY C. O. N.
From fair Mount Ida's western slope,
I've gazed with rapture and with hope,
While 'cross the valley's wide expanse
The billowy shadows play and prance;
The noble Hudson seaward flows,
Yet I see nothing but my Rose.
Fair maidens, lithe of limb and arm,
At tennis play, with wond'rous charm;
The summer sun beams from above,
While they shout gayly "Deuce" and "Love."
Still I, on sidelines, lie and doze,
Seeing nothing but my Rose.
The children, in the sand and swings,
Like fairies seem, tho' minus wings;
Their Spring of Life is near overflowing,
They care not how the wind is blowing.
Their shouts disturb not my repose,
For I see nothing by my Rose.
She is a picture past compare,
With wide-brimm'd hat and waving hair;
Her racket poised to serve the ball,
Her graceful figure, slender, tall.
Enraptured, 'thralled, my eyes I close
And still see nothing but my Rose.
Fatigued, she seeks a shady nook,
Where, quiet, she can read her book.
Her dropping lashes kiss her cheeks,
Her voice is music when she speaks;
And when she smiled each flower let glows—
They, too, see nothing but my Rose.
Ah! would that no one else were near,
I'd gladly, fondly, call her "Dear."
Alas! our fondest hopes are vain—
Just at that moment down came rain,
And, trembling, like one partly froze,
I then see—nothing of my Rose.
Troy Times. September 3, 1912: 9 col 1.