A humble wild-rose, pink and slender, <br /> Was plucked and placed in a bright bouquet, <br />Beside a Jacqueminot’s royal splendour, <br /> And both in my lady’s boudoir lay. <br /> <br />Said the haughty bud, in a tone of scorning, <br /> ‘I wonder why you are called a rose? <br />Your leaves will fade in a single morning; <br /> No blood of mine in your pale cheek glows. <br /> <br />‘Your course green stalk shows dust of the highway, <br /> You have no depths of fragrant bloom; <br />And what could you learn in a rustic byway <br /> To fit you to lie in my lady’s room? <br /> <br />‘If called to adorn her warm, white bosom, <br /> What have you to offer for such a place, <br />Beside my fragrant and splendid blossom, <br /> Ripe with colour and rich with grace? <br /> <br />Said the sweet wild-rose, ‘Despite your dower <br /> Of finer breeding and deeper hue, <br />Despite your beauty, fair, high-bred flower, <br /> It is I who should lie on her breast, not you. <br /> <br />‘For small account is your hot-house glory <br /> Beside the knowledge that came to me <br />When I heard by the wayside love’s old story <br /> And felt the kiss of the amorous bee.’<br /><br />Ella Wheeler Wilcox<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/two-roses/
