A MOSS-ROSE

If the rose of all flowers be the rarest

That heaven may adore from above,

And the fervent moss-rose be the fairest

That sweetens the summer with love,

Can it be that a fairer than any

Should blossom afar from the tree?

Yet one, and a symbol of many,

Shone sudden for eyes that could see.

In the grime and the gloom of November

The bliss and the bloom of July

Bade autumn rejoice and remember

The balm of the blossoms gone by.

Would you know what moss-rose now it may be

That puts all the rest to the blush,

The flower was the face of a baby,

The moss was a bonnet of plush.