The Rose

THE ROSE had been wash’d, just wash’d in a shower,

Which Mary to Anna conveyed;

The plentiful moisture encumber’d the flower

And weigh’d down its beautiful head.

The cup was all fill’d, and the leaves were all wet,

And it seem’d, to a fanciful view,

To weep for the bud it had left with regret

On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I hastily seized it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so dripping and drown’d,

And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!

I snapp’d it, it fell to the ground.

“And such,” I exclaim’d, “is the pitiless part

Some act by the delicate mind,

Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart

Already to sorrow resign’d.

“This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloom’d with its owner awhile;

And the tear that is wiped with a little address,

May be follow’d perhaps by a smile.”