Asking For Roses
A
house
that
lacks,
seemingly,
mistress
and
master,
With
doors
that
none
but
the
wind
ever
closes,
Its
floor
all
littered
with
glass
and
with
plaster;
It
stands
in
a
garden
of
old-fashioned
roses.
I
pass
by
that
way
in
the
gloaming
with
Mary;
'I
wonder,'
I
say,
'who
the
owner
of
those
is.'
'Oh,
no
one
you
know,'
she
answers
me
airy,
'But
one
we
must
ask
if
we
want
any
roses.'
So
we
must
join
hands
in
the
dew
coming
coldly
There
in
the
hush
of
the
wood
that
reposes,
And
turn
and
go
up
to
the
open
door
boldly,
And
knock
to
the
echoes
as
beggars
for
roses.
'Pray,
are
you
within
there,
Mistress
Who-were-you?'
'Tis
Mary
that
speaks
and
our
errand
discloses.
'Pray,
are
you
within
there?
Bestir
you,
bestir
you!
'Tis
summer
again;
there's
two
come
for
roses.
'A
word
with
you,
that
of
the
singer
recalling—
Old
Herrick:
a
saying
that
every
maid
knows
is
A
flower
unplucked
is
but
left
to
the
falling,
And
nothing
is
gained
by
not
gathering
roses.'
We
do
not
loosen
our
hands'
intertwining
(Not
caring
so
very
much
what
she
supposes),
There
when
she
comes
on
us
mistily
shining
And
grants
us
by
silence
the
boon
of
her
roses.
