Classic Poem

I that tumble at your feet
Am a rose;
Nothing dewier or more sweet
Buds or blows.
He that plucked me, he that threw me
Breathed in fire his whole soul through me.

How the cold air is infused
With the scent!
See, this satin leaf is bruised,—
Bruised and bent.
Lift me, lift the wounded blossom,
Soothe it at your rosier bosom!

Frown not with averted eyes!
Joy's a flower,
That is born a god, and dies
In an hour.
Take me, for the summer closes,
And your life is but a rose's.