Two Roses

A humble wild-rose, pink and slender,          Was plucked and placed in a bright bouquet,     Beside a Jacqueminot's royal splendour,          And both in my lady's boudoir lay.     Said the haughty bud, in a tone of scorning,          "I wonder why you are called a rose?     Your leaves will fade in a single morning;          No blood of mine in your pale cheek glows.     "Your coarse green stalk shows dust of the highway,          You have no depths of fragrant bloom;     And what could you learn in a rustic byway          To fit you to lie in my lady's room?     "If called to adorn her warm, white bosom,          What have you to offer for such a place,     Beside my fragrant and splendid blossom,          Ripe with colour and rich with grace?"     Said the sweet wild-rose, "Despite your dower          Of finer breeding and deeper hue,     Despite your beauty, fair, high-bred flower,          It is I who should lie on her breast, not you.     "For small account is your hot-house glory          Beside the knowledge that came to me     When I heard by the wayside love's old story          And felt the kiss of the amorous bee."