Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.

By HildegardeHawthorne

1663 My Rose

ON a green slope, most fragrant with the spring,

One sweet, fair day I planted a red rose,

That grew, beneath my tender nourishing,

So tall, so riotous of bloom, that those

Who passed the little valley where it grew

Smiled at its beauty. All the air was sweet

About it! Still I tended it, and knew

That he would come, e’en as it grew complete.

And a day brought him! Up I led him, where

In the warm sun my rose bloomed gloriously—

Smiling and saying, “So, is it not fair?

And all for thee—all thine!” But he passed by

Coldly, and answered, “Rose? I see no rose,”

Leaving me standing in the barren vale

Alone! alone! feeling the darkness close

Deep o’er my heart, and all my being fail.

Then came one, gently, yet with eager tread,

Begging one rosebud—but my rose was dead.