Love Is Like A Rose, The Joy

The Rose Saith In The Dewy Morn, I Am Most Fair; Yet All My Loveliness Is Born Upon A Thorn.

I Wish I Could Remember The First Day, First Hour, First Moment Of Your Meeting Me; If Bright Or Dim The Season It Might Be; Summer Or Winter For Aught I Can Say. So, Unrecorded Did It Slip Away, So Blind Was I To See And To Forsee, So Dull To Mark The Budding Of My Tree That Would Not Blossom, Yet, For Many A May.

When I Am Dead, My Dearest, Sing No Sad Songs For Me

For There Is No Friend Like A Sister In Calm Or Stormy Weather.

As A Tree My Sin Stands To Darken All Lands; Death Is The Fruit It Bore.