TWO ROSES

A humble wild-rose, pink and slender,

Was plucked and placed in a bright bouquet,

Beside a Jacqueminot's royal splendour,

And both in my lady's boudoir lay.

Said the haughty bud, in a tone of scorning,

“I wonder why you are called a rose?

Your leaves will fade in a single morning;

No blood of mine in your pale cheek glows.

“Your coarse green stalk shows dust of the highway,

You have no depths of fragrant bloom;

And what could you learn in a rustic byway

To fit you to lie in my lady's room?

“If called to adorn her warm, white bosom,

What have you to offer for such a place,

Beside my fragrant and splendid blossom,

Ripe with colour and rich with grace?”

Said the sweet wild-rose, “Despite your dower

Of finer breeding and deeper hue,

Despite your beauty, fair, high-bred flower,

It is I who should lie on her breast, not you.

“For small account is your hot-house glory

Beside the knowledge that came to me

When I heard by the wayside love's old story

And felt the kiss of the amorous bee.”