A Rose-tree, all ablush with opening flowers,
Just nodded to the heliotrope and pink,
Greeted the lilies by the fountain's brink
And curtseyed toward the jasmine's star-wreathed bowers.
She then perceived a plant which, in the hours
Since May-time blossoms blew and bobolink
Sang blithely, constant grew, yet seemed to drink
No beauty from spring sun or summer showers.
Scornful, she tossed her head, but soothingly
Dame Nature to the plant dishonored said: "Time conquereth
The proud. Yon rose her petaled pomps shall see
Torn rudely by the Frost-King's icy breath,
When life luxuriant shall throb in thee,
And blossom in the very midst of death!"