The Rose. Poem by Susan Evance

FRESH with the morning dew,
Observe yon budding rose-
O mark the blushing hue
That on its bosom glows.

'Tis like love's early bloom-
The flush of hope and joy;
Alas, that time's harsh doom
Such radiance should destroy!

Ah me! how soon it dies-
For disappointment's air
With cold wing o'er it flies,
And blights it with despair.

And then in thorny vest
The wither'd stem appears;
To wound the bleeding breast,
And fill the eyes with tears.