Gateway to the Classics: Display Item
Hilda Conkling

Rambler Rose

Rambler Rose in great clusters,

Looking at me, at my mother with me

Under this apple-tree,

Your faces watch us from outside the shade.

The wind blows on you,

The rain drops on you,

The sun shines on you,

You are brighter than before.

You turn your faces to the wind

And watch my mother and me,

Thinking of things I cannot mention

Outside of my mind.

Rambler Rose in the shining wind,

You smile at me,

Smile at my mother!