My garden roses long ago br Have perished from the leaf-strewn walks; br Their pale, fair sisters smile no more br Upon the sweet-brier stalks. br br Gone with the flower-time of my life, br Spring's violets, summer's blooming pride, br And Nature's winter and my own br Stand, flowerless, side by side. br br So might I yesterday have sung; br To-day, in bleak December's noon, br Come sweetest fragrance, shapes, and hues, br The rosy wealth of June! br br Bless the young bands that culled the gift, br And bless the hearts that prompted it; br If undeserved it comes, at least br It seems not all unfit. br br Of old my Quaker ancestors br Had gifts of forty stripes save one; br To-day as many roses crown br The gray head of their son. br br And with them, to my fancy's eye, br The fresh-faced givers smiling come, br And nine and thirty happy girls br Make glad a lonely room. br br They bring the atmosphere of youth; br The light and warmth of long ago br Are in my heart, and on my cheek br The airs of morning blow.