Young Rosalind, she is my rose!
I care not who the secret knows;
So deep within my heart she grows,
Her constant bloom no winter knows;
Sweet Rosalind, she is my rose.
Alas! this rose hath yet a thorn,
Whereon my heart is daily torn.
The love I proffer her each morn,
That love she flings me back in scorn.
But shall I therefore idly mourn?
She’d be no rose without the thorn.
When the ivory lily darkens,
When the jealous rose turns pale,
Then I say, “My Julia’s coming!
‘Tis a sign will never fail.
When the bobolink is silent,
When the linnet stays her trill,
Then I say, “My Julia’s singing!
At her voice the birds are still.”
When I feel two velvet rose-leaves
Touch my eyes on either lid,
Then I say, “My Julia kissed me!”
And she answers, “Yes, me did!”