The Rose

The rose had been washed, just washed in a shower Which Mary to Anna conveyed; The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower, And weighed down its beautiful head. The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet, And it seemed, to a fanciful view, To weep for the buds it had left with regret On the flourishing bush where it grew. I hastily seized it, unfit as it was For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned, And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas! I snapped it; it fell to the ground. And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part Some act by the delicate mind, Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart Already to sorrow resigned. This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, Might have bloomed with its owner awhile; And the tear that is wiped with a little address, May be followed perhaps by a smile.