Said the Rose...

Even after all these years, this poem still makes my heart skip a beat.

I am weary of the Garden,
      Said the Rose;
For the winter winds are sighing,
All my playmates round me dying,
And my leaves will soon be lying
     'Neath the snows.

But I hear my Mistress coming,
    Said the Rose;
She will take me to her chamber,
Where the honeysuckles clamber,
And I'll bloom there all December
    Spite the snows.

Sweeter fell her lily finger
     Than the bee!
Ah, how feebly I resisted,
Smoothed my thorns, and e'en assisted
As all blushing I was twisted
     Off my tree.

And she fixed me in her bosom
     Like a star;
And I flashed there all the morning,
Jasmine, honeysuckle scorning,
Parasites forever fawning
    That they are.

And when evening came she set me
     In a vase.
All of rare and radiant metal,
And I felt her red lips settle
On my leaves til each proud petal
    Touched her face.

And I shone about her slumbers
    Like a light
And, I said, instead of weeping,
Here I'll watch my Mistress sleeping
    Every night.

But when morning with its sunbeams
    Softly shone,
In the mirror where she braided
Her brown hair I saw how jaded
Old and colorless and faded,
    I had grown.

Not a drop of dew was on me,
    Never one;
From my leaves no odors started,
All my perfume had departed,
I lay pale and broken-hearted
    In the sun.

Still I said, her smile is better 
    Than the rain;
Though my fragrance may forsake me,
To her bosom she will take me,
And with crimson kisses make me
    Young again.

So she took me...gazed a second...
    Half a sigh...
Than, alas, can hearts so harden?
Without ever asking pardon,
Threw me back into the garden,
    There to die.

How the jealous garden gloried
    In my fall!
How the honeysuckle chid me,
How the sneering jasmins bid me
Light the long gray grass that hid me
    Like a pall.

There I lay beneath the window
    In a swoon,
Till the earthworm o'er me trailing
Woke me just at twilight's failing,
As the whip-poor-will was wailing
    To the moon.

But I hear the storm-winds stirring
    In their lair;
And I know they soon will lift me
In their giant arms and sift me
Into ashes as they drift me
    Through the air.

So I pray them in their mercy
    Just to take
From my heart of hearts, or near it,
The last living leaf, and bear it
To her feet, and bid her wear it
    For my sake.

--George H. Miles