Classic Poem

Now since it knows
My heart so well,
Would that this rose
Might speak and tell!

You could not scorn
Its winsome grace,
The blush of morn
Upon its face.

Unto your own
You needs must press
The sweet mouth prone
To tenderness;

Then, lip to lip,
With rapture stirred,
You might let slip
The secret word,

With fragrant kiss
Interpreting
The dream of bliss
The rose would bring.

Then to your breast
Take it to be
Your own heart's best
Love-augury,—
A welcome guest,—
To gladden me.