 | Mother Pitcher's poems For Little People |  |
36
The Rose-Bush.
I had a little rose-bush,
Which grew beside my bed;
It used to talk of summer,
And pretty things it said.
And when I woke at midnight,
I heard a lovely strain:
It was my rose-bush singing,
Until I slept again.
Which grew beside my bed;
It used to talk of summer,
And pretty things it said.
And when I woke at midnight,
I heard a lovely strain:
It was my rose-bush singing,
Until I slept again.
There came two little rose-buds,
And then my talks were o'er:
Good-bye, my pretty rose-bush!
It speaks to me no more.
Two buds upon the branches,—
Two leaves upon the stem:
To me the bush is silent,
And only sings to them.
And then my talks were o'er:
Good-bye, my pretty rose-bush!
It speaks to me no more.
Two buds upon the branches,—
Two leaves upon the stem:
To me the bush is silent,
And only sings to them.
| Mother Pitcher's poems For Little People | |