THE PROGRESSION OF THE ROSE.
The rose, when born, was purest white,
And of her beauty never thought.
The sun began to smile on her,
Then a great change in her was wrought.
The sun looked down admiringly.
She of her beauty ’gan to think;
Some one in passing, gave her praise,
And she then blushed a rosy pink.
The moss-rose next sprang into life,
With beauty rare, and fragrance sweet.
So modest was this little rose,
The public gaze she feared to meet.
She was so timid, and so shy,
She hid her face in veil of green;
It was a crown of beauty rare,
More beautiful had never queen.
She longed though for companionship.
She wished full oft to tell her woes.
So chose a mate among the flowers,
And then became a bridal rose.
She now ambitious was to rise,
And with disdain looked on the earth;
She then sent many tendrils out,
And then the climbing rose had birth.
She now was filled with greatest pride,
And struggled hard to reach the skies,
But Nature sent her edict forth
That she no higher e’er should rise.
The rose with anger now was filled,
For glancing down upon her bed,
She saw a worm coiled ’mong her roots,
And then she turned an angry red.
And now was born the bright red rose,
And though its beauty came from hate.
No one disputes its right to reign
A royal queen in regal state.