Time of Roses, The. 
By Hood, Thomas. 


It was not in the winter
Our loving lot was cast;
It was the time of roses - 
We plucked them as we passed.

That churlish season never frowned
On early lovers yet:
Oh no! the world was newly crowned
With flowers when first we met.

'Twas twilight, and I bade you go,
But still you held me fast;
It was the time of roses - 
We plucked them as we passed.