 | Poems and Sonnets |  |
THE ROSE.
A poet loved a rose—and watched it grow;And every day a sweeter blush was there,
And pouting petals fuller and more fair,
Each eventide “to-morrow it will blow,”
The poet said, “to-morrow I shall know
The perfect splendour of this flower rare,”
Sometimes its beauty more than he could bear
Brought tears for joy's excess akin to woe;
And so he watched it; and one night he said,
“I see my rose upon the verge of bloom,
To-morrow royal robes she shall assume,
Uplift to heaven a pink most perfect head,”
But when he came next day the rose was dead,
And on that spot they placed—a poet's tomb!
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