The Rose

O rose, thou flower of flowers, thou fragrant wonder,
  Who shall describe thee in thy ruddy prime,
  Thy perfect fullness in the summertime,
When the pale leaves blushingly part asunder
And show the warm red heart lies glowing under?
  Thou shouldst bloom surely in some sunny clime,
  Untouched by blights and chilly winter's rime,
Where lightnings never flash nor peals the thunder.
And yet in happier spheres they cannot need thee
  So much as we do with our weight of woe;
Perhaps they would not tend, perhaps not heed thee,
  And thou wouldst lonely and neglected grow:
And He who is all wise, He hath decreed thee
  To gladden earth and cheer all hearts below.