The Moss Rose

Friedrich Adolf Krummacher (1767–1845)

Anonymous translation from the German

THE ANGEL of the flowers, one day,

Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay,—

That spirit to whose charge ’t is given

To bathe young buds in dews of heaven.

Awaking from his light repose,

The angel whispered to the rose:

“O fondest object of my care,

Still fairest found, where all are fair;

For the sweet shade thou giv’st to me

Ask what thou wilt, ’t is granted thee.”

“Then,” said the rose, with deepened glow,

“On me another grace bestow.”

The spirit paused, in silent thought,

What grace was there that flower had not?

’T was but a moment,—o’er the rose

A veil of moss the angel throws,

And, robed in nature’s simplest weed,

Could there a flower that rose exceed?