Classic Poem

O happy Rose, red Rose, that bloomest lonely
Where there are none to gather while they love thee;
That art perfumed by thine own fragrance only,
Resting like incense round thee and above thee; —
Thou hearest nought save some pure stream that flows,
O happy Rose.

What tho' for thee no nightingales are singing?
They chant one eve, but hush them in the morning.
Near thee no little moths and bees are winging
To steal thy honey when the day is dawning; —
Thou keep'st thy sweetness till the twilight's close,
O happy Rose.

Then rest in peace, thou lone and lovely flower;
Yea be thou glad, knowing that none are near thee
To mar thy beauty in a wanton hour,
And scatter all thy leaves, nor deign to wear thee.
Securely in thy solitude repose,