The Old Gate Clicks, And Down The Walk, Between Clove-Pink And Hollyhock, Still Young Of Face Though Gray Of Lock, Among Her Garden'S Flowers She Goes At Evening'S Close, Deep In Her Hair A Yellow Rose. The Old House Shows One Gable-Peak Above Its Trees; And Sage And Leek Blend With The Rose Their Scents: The Creek, Leaf-Hidden, Past The Garden Flows, That On It Snows Pale Petals Of The Yellow Rose. The Crickets Pipe In Dewy Damps; And Everywhere The Fireflies' Lamps Flame Like The Lights Of Faery Camps; While, Overhead, The Soft Sky Shows One Star That Glows, As, In Gray Hair, A Yellow Rose. There Is One Spot She Seeks For, Where The Roses Make A Fragrant Lair, A Spot Where Once He Kissed Her Hair, And Told His Love, As Each One Knows, Each Flower That Blows, And Pledged It With A Yellow Rose. The Years Have Turned Her Dark Hair Gray Since That Glad Day: And Still, They Say, She Keeps The Tryst As On That Day; And Through The Garden Softly Goes, At Evening'S Close, Wearing For Him That Yellow Rose.