It was in summers long now past
Anëurin did play his lute
And over summer fields did dance
The Sun and Moon did he entrance
With mandolin and Ivory flute
And free of heart, a careless soul,
Did dance along so merrily
All golden haired, an elfin Prince
Who lightly tread so fancy-free
The jewel of summer’s crown was he.

In meadows green, in forests old
Upon the rivers’ flowing tide
Atop the peaks of mountains cold
In valleys green with summer’s hold
‘Tis said our minstrel did abide,
But lonely he, forgotten soul,
To tread where no man ever goes
And sadly did he play his lute,
His voice in melancholy ‘rose
Waking the Spirit of the Rose

In maiden form did she appear
Out of the thorns his sorrows spun;
A quiet girl with sable hair,
Her gentle voice, her skin so fair
Her sapphire eyes so brightly shone,
Her gown, of crimson petals wove,
In flowing folds fell ‘round her light
A silver crown to grace her brow,
Dew slippers for her feet so white;
The dawn was shamed within her sight!

He sang, and her free heart beguiled
With mandolin and ringing bell
And tamed the beauty of the wild
With music sweet and lyrics mild;
She fell to his harmonious spell
And to him came, upon white feet
A maiden wrapped in beauty rare
Entranced by nature’s voices sweet
Anëurin could only stare
To see such beauty standing there

’Twas only joy, that summer had
And ere the seasons heralded fall
They fall in love, our minstrel-lad
And maiden ‘round in roses clad,
While nature sang a madrigal
But it seemed their love was not to be
For she was of the roses’ kin
And flowers fade, as summer wanes
To memories of what once had been;
Cruel Autumn took her… and left him.

Through many hopeless months he wept,
Deprived of music in his soul.
He hardly ate and barely slept
While Winter, silent vigil kept
And covered all the land in snow
And when the icy weather turned,
And blossoms garlanded the trees,
When Winter fled and Spring returned,
No word was there upon the breeze
That roses had survived the freeze.

But cry ye not, Anëurin
Though full of feckless tears thou be;
‘Tis sure that thou’ll see her again
When summer’s come, and spring has been,
And Winter’s but a memory.
Then look thee to the meadows green,
And to the forests’ living glades,
And find again the music left
Within the quiet of the shade;
There dance again with your Rose-Maid!