THE ROSE

I took the love you gave, Ah, carelessly,

Counting it only as a rose to wear

A little moment on my heart no more,

So many roses had I worn before,

So lightly that I scarce believed them there.

But, Lo! this rose between the dusk and dawn

Hath turned to very flame upon my breast,

A flame that burns the day-long and the night,

A flame of very anguish and delight

That not for any moment yields me rest.

And I am troubled with a strange, new fear,

How would it be if even to your door

I came to cry your pitying one day,

And you should lightly laugh and lightly say,

“That was a rose I gave you — nothing more.”