The Fallen Rose
by Lydia Howard Sigourney
A rose was gather'd from the bower,
Where lovingly it grew,
By summer's genial sunbeam cheer'd
And fed with dew.
Who pluck'd it from its home away?
A thoughtless passer-by?
A vengeful heart on evil bent?
An envious eye?
Who broke the stalk? Methought a voice
Spake tenderly and low,
No careless hand this deed hath wrought,
No cruel foe:
The florist. who the plant had rear'd,
Set on the flower his seal,
He sows the seed to reap the fruit,
He wounds to heal.
Source:The Weeping Willow
Henry S. Parsons, Hartford.