Two Roses

A humble wild-rose, pink and slender,
 Was plucked and placed in a bright bouquet,
Beside a Jacqueminot’s royal splendour,
 And both in my lady’s boudoir lay.

Said the haughty bud, in a tone of scorning,
 ‘I wonder why you are called a rose?
Your leaves will fade in a single morning;
 No blood of mine in your pale cheek glows.

‘Your course green stalk shows dust of the highway,
 You have no depths of fragrant bloom;
And what could you learn in a rustic byway
 To fit you to lie in my lady’s room?

‘If called to adorn her warm, white bosom,
 What have you to offer for such a place,
Beside my fragrant and splendid blossom,
 Ripe with colour and rich with grace?

Said the sweet wild-rose, ‘Despite your dower
 Of finer breeding and deeper hue,
Despite your beauty, fair, high-bred flower,
 It is I who should lie on her breast, not you.

‘For small account is your hot-house glory
 Beside the knowledge that came to me
When I heard by the wayside love’s old story
 And felt the kiss of the amorous bee.’