Poetry Archives

I gathered you, sweet little rosebud,
  With a dew crown encircling your head;
Now, out of the window I toss you,
  Shriveled, and scentless, and dead.
You had opened to wondrous perfection,
  Had only my hand let you pass;
Yet here you have perished for water—
  I forgot to put some in the glass.

Ah! poor little withered, dead rosebud,
  How many a weak human heart,
Too like you, has famishing perished,
  When life had but only a start?
Yes, many a heart, little rosebud,
  Loving, and tender, and true,
For water has faded and withered,
  And died in its beauty like you,
Not because there was dearth of life’s fountain,
  Nor the blessing to all might not pass,
But because the strong hand which it clung to
  Forgot to put some in its glass.