I sent a little maiden
To pluck for me a rose,
The sweetest and the fairest
That in the garden grows—
A blush-rose, proud and tender,
Upon its stem so slender,
Swaying in dreamy splendor
Where yellow sunshine glows.
Back came the little maiden
With drooping, downcast head,
And slow, reluctant footsteps,
And this to me she said:
“I find no sweet blush-roses
In all the garden closes:
There are no summer roses;
It must be they are dead!”
Then bent I to the maiden
And touched her shining hair—
Dear heart! in all the garden
Was nothing half so fair!
“Nay!” said I, “let the roses
Die in the garden closes
Whenever fate disposes,
If I _this_ rose may wear!”