The Book of the Rose

by Charles G.D. Roberts




I dreamed last night my love was dead.
The dreadful thing was this!—
Not that my lips would feel no more
The kindness of her kiss;
Not that my feet the weary years
Would go uncomraded;
Not that of all my love for her
So much remained unsaid;—
But, sickening, I remembered how
I had been false to her!
"Oh God!" I cried aloud—"She knows
I have been false to her!"