We were driving home from the "Patriarchs'"—
Molly Lefevre and I, you know;
The white flakes fluttered about our lamps;
Our wheels were hushed in the sleeping snow.
Her white arms nestled amid her furs;
Her hands half-held, with languid grace,
Her fading roses; fair to see
Was the dreamy look in her sweet, young face.
I watched her, saying never a word,
For I would not waken those dreaming eyes.
The breath of the roses filled the air,
And my thoughts were many, and far from wise.
At last I said to her, bending near,
"Ah, Molly Lefevre, how sweet 'twould be,
To ride on dreaming, all our lives,
Alone with the roses—you and me."
Her sweet lips faltered, her sweet eyes fell,
And, low as the voice of a Summer rill,
Her answer came. It was—"Yes, perhaps—
But who would settle our carriage bill?"
The dying roses breathed their last,
Our wheels rolled loud on the stones just then,
Where the snow had drifted; the subject dropped.
It has never been taken up again.