WASTE

I flung a wild rose into the sea,

I know not why.

For swinging there on a rathe rose-tree,

By the scented bay and barberry,

Its petals gave all their sweet to me,

As I passed by.

And yet I flung it into the tide,

And went my way.

I climbed the gray rocks, far and wide,

And many a cove of peace I tried,

With none of them all to be satisfied,

The whole long day.

For I had wasted a beautiful thing,

Which might have won

Each passing heart to pause and sing,

On the sea-path there, of its blossoming.

And who wastes beauty shall feel want's sting,

As I had done.