To A Rose

By John Banister Tabb

Thou hast not toiled, sweet Rose,
Yet needest rest;
Softly thy petals close
Upon thy breast,
Like folded hands, of labor long oppressed.

Naught knowest thou of sin,
Yet tears are thine;
Baptismal drops within
Thy chalice shine,
At morning's birth, at evening's calm decline.

Alas! one day hath told
The tale to thee!
Thy tender leaves enfold
Life's mystery:
Its shadow falls alike on thee and me!