ACROSS the kingdom of the rose Old Father Time a pilgrim goes, And fills his scrip and bends his knee At many a roadside priory Of daffodil and fleur-de-lis — In the kingdom of the rose. Like a lighted shrine the orchard glows Down blosmy lanes; the lily shows In the hillside sweep of lance and spear That silver tournaments are near,— And the poppy's gipsy camps appear In the kingdom of the rose. But out of some high country blows A chiming sweet as Roncevaux's To guide the pilgrim to his shrine,— To tell me soon this heart of mine With Love's own flower shall intertwine In the kingdom of the rose. |