Floral Poetry. 
189 
The Spirit paused in silent thought,— 
What grace was there that flower had not? 
’Twas 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? 
Anon. 
THE WILD ROSE. 
A BOY espied, in morning light, 
A little Rosebud blowing; 
’Twas so delicate and bright, 
That he came to feast his sight, 
And wonder at its growing. 
Rosebud, Rosebud, Rosebud red, 
Rosebud brightly blowing ! 
I will gather thee—he cried— 
Rosebud brightly blowing ! 
Then I’ll sting thee, it replied, 
And you’ll quickly start aside 
With the prickly glowing. 
Rosebud, Rosebud, Rosebud red, 
Rosebud brightly blowing ! 
But he plucked it from the plain, 
The Rosebud brightly blowing ! 
It turned and stung him, but in vain— 
He regarded not the pain, 
Homewards with it going. 
Rosebud, Rosebud, Rosebud red, 
Rosebud brightly blowing ! 
Goethe. 
Translated by Theodore Martin. 
