Classic Poem

The rose thou showst me has lost all its hue,
For thou dost seem to me than it less fair;
For when I look I turn from it to you,
And feel the flower has been thine only care;
Thou shouldst have grown as freely by its side
As springs the bud from out its parent stem,
But thou art from thy Father severed wide,
And turnst from thine own self to look at them;
Thy words do not perfume the summer air,
Nor draw the eye and ear like this thy flower;
No bees shall make thy lips their daily care,
And sip the sweets distilled from hour to hour;
Nor shall new plants from out thy scattered seed,
O'er many a field the eye with beauty feed.