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 to me,
Ask what thou wilt, ’tis granted thee.”
“Then,” said the rose, with deepened glow,
“On me another grace bestow.”
The spirit paused, in silent thought,—
What grace was there that flower had not?
’Twas but a moment,—o’er the rose
A veil of moss the angel throws;
And, robed in nature’s simplest weed,
Could there a flower that rose exceed?