Edith Wyatt

THE CLOVER’S grassy breath,

To him who listeneth

Upon the pastured lea,

Is like the monotone

Of some far sheep-bell, blown

From tranquil Arcady.

The airs of that last rose,

That late and crimson blows

And frosted dies,

Smell, as in green and dew,

The first, first rose that blew

In waking Paradise.

What fragrance, ages hence,

Shall tell the listening sense

Of men who guess—

Men whose far lives shall range

On paths remote and strange—

Our happiness?