Thomas Hood (1799-1845)
Time of Roses
It was not in the WinterOur loving lot was cast;
It was the time of roses—
We plucked them as we passed!
That churlish season never frowned
On early lovers yet:
O no—the world was newly crowned
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 passed!
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