My Rose

On a green slope, most fragrant with the spring,   One sweet, fair day I planted a red rose, That grew, beneath my tender nourishing,   So tall, so riotous of bloom, that those Who passed the little valley where it grew   Smiled at its beauty. All the air was sweet About it! Still I tended it, and knew   That he would come, e’en as it grew complete. And a day brought him! Up I led him, where   In the warm sun my rose bloomed gloriously— Smiling and saying, “So, is it not fair?   And all for thee—all thine!” But he passed by Coldly, and answered, “Rose? I see no rose,”   Leaving me standing in the barren vale Alone! alone! feeling the darkness close   Deep o’er my heart, and all my being fail.   Then came one, gently, yet with eager tread,   Begging one rosebud—but my rose was dead.