When Roses die, in languid August days,
We leave the garden to its fallen ways,
And seek the shelter of wide porticoes,
Where Honeysuckle in defiance blows
Undaunted by the sun’s too ardent rays.
The matron Summer turns a wistful gaze
Across green valleys, back to tender Mays;
And something of her large contentment goes,
When Roses die;
Yet all her subtle fascination stays
To lure us into idle, sweet delays.
The lowered awning by the hammock shows
Inviting nooks for dreaming and repose;
Oh, restful are the pleasures of those days
When Roses die.