The angel of the flowers, one day,

Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay,—

That spirit to whose charge ’tis given

To bathe young buds in dews of heaven.

Awaking from his light repose,

The angel whispered to the rose:

“O fondest object of my care,

Still fairest found, where all are fair;

For the sweet shade thou giv’st me,

Ask what thou wilt, ’tis granted thee.”

“Then,” said the rose, with deepened glow,