The Dying Rose-Bud's Lament

By Frances Sargent Locke Osgood

Ah me! ah! wo is me!
That I should perish now,
With the dear sunlight just let in
Upon my balmy brow!

My leaves, instinct with glowing life,
Were quivering to unclose!
My happy heart with love was rife!
I was almost a Rose!

Nerved by a hope, warm, rich, intense,
Already I had risen
Above my cage's curving fence,
My green and graceful prison!

My pouting lips, by Zephyr press'd,
Were just prepared to part,
And whisper to the wooing wind
The rapture of my heart!

In new-born fancies revelling,
My mossy cell half riven,
Each thrilling leaflet seem'd a wing
To bear me into heaven.

How oft, while yet an infant flower,
My crimson cheek I've laid
Against the green bars of my bower,
Impatient of the shade!

And pressing up and peeping through
Its small but precious vistas,
Sigh'd for the lovely light and dew
That bless'd my elder sisters!

I saw the sweet breeze rippling o'er
Their leaves that loved the play,
Though the light thief stole all their store
Of dew-drop gems away.

I thought how happy I should be
Such diamond wreaths to wear,
And frolic with a rose's glee,
With sunbeam, bird, and air!

Ah me! ah! wo is me! that I,
Ere yet my leaves unclose,
With all my wealth of sweets must die
Before I am a Rose!