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The wind has come out of the north

            With a whoop and a wild halloo,

And the rose has drooped on its stem and died,

            And the lilies are wilted, too;

                        But the red, red, red

                        Of the rose that’s dead

Now blooms in the checks of you.

And the lily the north wind grasped,

            So graceful and slim and tall,

Has toppled down ‘neath his harsh caress,

            Has died in his chilling thrall;

                        But the graces rare

                        Of the lily fair

Are yours, you have got them all.

Aye, the blossoms are withered all,

            And the vines hang dead, they do;

The glories that waked to the morn’s caress,

            Begemmed with the night-wind’s dew;

                        But the rare, rare hue

                        That the glories knew

Now blooms in the eyes of you.

Aye, the beauty of every bloom,

            Of glory, and rose half blown,

Of vine and petal and lily tall,

            Whatever, wherever grown;

                        The graces fled,

                        And the rose’s red,

I swear you have made your own.

And the love that my heart erst held

            For meadows and skies of blue,

For every bloom of heath and wold,

            Whatever its name or hue,

                        For blooms struck dead,

                        For graces fled,

Still lives, but it’s all for you.

 Lilts O Love Table Of Contents