Classic Poem

A rose was blooming as I passed along
The gentle roads of youth towards early toil:
A perfect flower it was, without a soil,
And round it all the gracious scent was strong.
To gather it thus early had been wrong,—
So, well content, I hurried on my way,
Devoting till the evening of the day
All thoughts and passionate labour to my song.

But in the evening when I thought the hour
For holy gathering of the fragrant flower
Approached,—rude other hands had robbed the stem:
Yet though these grasp the scarlet rose mature,
Her fragrance in life's morning, strangely pure,
Was given to me, thank God!—not given to them.