The Rose

The rose-tree wears a diadem,
Both bud and bloom of gold and fire,
Too high upon the slender stem
For baby hands that reach for them:

And Roses! my brown Elsa cries:
Her chubby arms in vain aspire.
But rose-leaf Hilda smiles and sighs
And worships them with patient eyes.

I gathered them a rose or two,
But not the shy one hanging higher
That brushed my lips with honey-dew!
That is the rose I send to you.

Grace Hazard Conkling