Said the Rose I am weary of the Garden,

Said the Rose;

For the winter winds are sighing,

All my playmates round me dying,

And my leaves will soon be lying

'Neath the snows.



But I hear my Mistress coming,

Said the Rose;

She will take me to her chamber,

Where the honeysuckles clamber,

And I'll bloom there all December

Spite the snows.



Sweeter fell her lily finger

Than the bee!

Ah, how feebly I resisted,

Smoothed my thorns, and e'en assisted

As all blushing I was twisted

Off my tree.



And she fixed me in her bosom

Like a star;

And I flashed there all the morning,

Jasmin, honeysuckle scorning

Parasites forever fawning

That they are.



And when evening came she set me

In a vase

All of rare and radiant metal,

And I felt her red lips settle

On my leaves til each proud petal

Touched her face.



And I shone about her slumbers

Like a light

And, I said, instead of weeping,

In the garden vigil keeping,

Here I'll watch my Mistress sleeping

Every night.



But when morning with its sunbeams

Softly shone,

In the mirror where she braided

Her brown hair I saw how jaded,

Old and colorless and faded,

I had grown.



Not a drop of dew was on me,

Never one;

From my leaves no odors started,

All my perfume had departed,

I lay pale and broken-hearted

In the sun.



Still I said, her smile is better

Than the rain;

Though my fragrance may forsake me,

To her bosom she will take me,

And with crimson kisses make me

Young again.



So she took me . . . gazed a second . . .

Half a sigh . . .

Then, alas, can hearts so harden?

Without ever asking pardon,

Threw me back into the garden,

There to die.



How the jealous garden gloried

In my fall!

How the honeysuckle chid me,

How the sneering jasmins bid me

Light the long gray grass that hid me

Like a pall.



There I lay beneath her window

In a swoon,

Till the earthworm o'er me trailing

Woke me just at twilight's failing,

As the whip-poor-will was wailing

To the moon



But I hear the storm-winds stirring

In their lair;

And I know they soon will lift me

In their giant arms and sift me

Into ashes as they drift me

Through the air.



So I pray them in their mercy

Just to take

From my heart of hearts, or near it,

The last living leaf, and bear it

To her feet, and bid her wear it

For my sake.

--George H. Miles