A Little Budding Rose
By Emily Bronte
It was a little budding rose,
Round like a fairy globe,
And shyly did its leaves unclose
Hid in their mossy robe,
But sweet was the slight and spicy smell,
It breathed from its heart invisible.
The rose is blasted, withered, blighted,
Its root has felt a worm,
And like a heart beloved and slighted,
Filed, faded, shrunk its form.
Bud of beauty, bonnie flower,
I stole thee from thy natal bower.
I was the worm that withered thee
Thy tears of dew all fell for me;
Leaf and silk and rose are gone,
Exile earth they died upon
Yes, that last breath of balmy scent
With alien breezes sadly blent!
http://http//en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Bront%C3%AB
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