H. C. Bunner

My love she leans from the windowAfar in a rosy land;And red as a rose are her blushes,And white as a rose her hand,

This German style of poemIs uncommonly popular now;For the worst of us poets can do it—Since Heine showed us how.

Why do I love New York, my dear?I do not know. Were my father here—And his—and HIS—the three and IMight, perhaps, make you some reply.

. . Oh, will you ever read it true,When all the rhymes are ended—How much of Hope, of Love, of You,With every verse is blended. . . .

"I put your rose within our baby's hand,To bear back with him into Baby-land;Your rose, you grew it—O my ever dear,What roses you have grown me, year by year!Your lover finds no path too hard to goWhile your love's roses round about him blow.