(_The Brier Rose speaks._)
I cling to the garden wall
Outside, where the grasses grow;
Where the tall weeds flaunt in the sun,
And the yellow mulleins blow.
The dock and the thistle crowd
Close to my shrinking feet,
And the gypsy yarrow shares
My cup and the food I eat.
The rude winds toss my hair,
The wild rains beat me down,
The way-side dust lies white
And thick on my leafy crown.
I cannot keep my robes
From wanton fingers free,
And the veriest beggar dares
To stop and gaze at me.
Sometimes I climb and climb
To the top of the garden wall,
And I see her where she stands,
Stately and fair and tall—
My sister, the red, red Rose,
My sister, the royal one,
The fairest flower that blows
Under the summer sun!
What wonder that she is fair?
What wonder that she is sweet?
The treasures of earth and air
Lie at her dainty feet;
The choicest fare is hers,
Her cup is brimmed with wine;
Rich are her emerald robes,
And her bed is soft and fine.
She need not lift her head
Even to sip the dew;
No rude touch makes her shrink
The whole long summer through.
Her servants do her will;
They come at her beck and call.
Oh, rare is life in my lady’s bowers
Inside of the garden wall!