The Coming of the Roses

On the south winds a flurry;

The slow clouds hurry,

The blue looks knowing.

There is coming and going

Of voices and wings and feet;

There is bringing and mixing of sweet,

Of tenderest hues

The deft hours use;

There is peering of happy faces

From secret, shadowy places.

The fluters of June

Blow a blissful tune;

On the leaves but the gleam

And the tremble of dream;

The gate of the sun-god closes.

But, all alone, will Love toil on,

Labor she will till the dark be gone;

And to-morrow there'll be roses.