He plucked the Rose in anger--
The Rose across his path;
And the thorns they cut and tore him
And scorned him in his wrath.
He plucked the Rose in hauteur
And pride no bond could bind,
And the Rose it tossed its royal head
Nor deigned to look behind.
He plucked the Rose in sadness--
And the red Rose seeing, knew:
And it gave its sweetest incense,
And its petals shone with dew.
He plucked the Rose in gladness--
Nor sorrow’s least alloy--
And the Rose it shook its leaves and laughed
In its tumultuous joy.
By all the devious ways he came--
By every mood and whim;
And as he stooped to gather--
The Rose gave back to him.