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The Fallen Rose

Lydia Howard Sigourney

A Rose was gather'd from the bower, where it lovingly grew,
By summer's genial sunbeam cheer'd and fed with dew.
Who pluck'd it from its home away? A thoughtless passer-by?
A vengeful heart on evil bent? An envious eye?

Who broke the stalk? Methought a voice spake tenderly and low,
"No careless hand this deed hath wrought, no cruel foe:
The florist, who the plant had rear'd, set on the flower his seal,
He sows the seed to reap the fruit, he wounds to heal."

The Weeping Willow. 1791-1865.

Home :: Poetry :: Friendship (2) :: The Fallen Rose

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