They sat in the porch together, 
Angry and pale and still, 
And watched, in gloomy silence, 
The moon rise over the hill. 
The fault of the foolish quarrel 
If his or hers, who knows ? 
The strangest things will happen 
Under the rose! 
A little stir in the shadow 
Shook down a drop of dew, 
That, out of a bud half open, 
Fell just between the two. 
If both of them turned together 
With a sudden start, who knows ? 
There is many a little rustle 
Under the rose ! 
He pulled from the vines at random 
A cluster over her head, 
Leaning a little nearer— 
To see if the rose was red ; 
If other roses reddened 
Within his reach, who knows ? 
One dare not say what happens 
Under the rose. 
Kate Putnam Osgood. 
