html website builder

The garden mourns for beauty lost
Through all its walks and ways,
And winds in passing hold lament
For dear dead summer days,
For faded flowers that lowly lie
With ghostly leaves,--and yet
They find there lingers fresh and sweet
Some blooms of mignonette.

 

All brilliant flowers are pale and dead
And sadly droop to earth,
While pansies chill in velvet robes
Count life but little worth;
But in these dark November days
That wander wild and wet,
Our thoughts are winged to summer hours
On breath of mignonette.

 

Along the garden ways of life
Droop withered hopes today;
Blooms that we thought were immortelles
Have faded quite away;
But on the graves of friendships dead
Some frail sweet flowers are set,
Whose autumn fragrance thrills the heart
Like breath of mignonette.