XXVIII The Rose
“
D
ear
Mother,” said a little boy,
“This rose is sweet and red;
Then tell me, pray, the reason why
I heard you call it dead?
“I did not think it was alive,
I never heard it talk,
Nor did I ever see it strive,
To run about or walk!”
“My dearest boy,” the mother said,
“This rose grew on a tree:
But now its leaves begin to fade,
And all fall off, you see.
“Before, when growing on the bough,
So beautiful and red,
We say it liv’d; but, with’ring now,
We say the rose is dead.”