By Dora Read Goodale
I chanced upon a rose the other day,
A pale and faded flower, forgotten long.
And with it these unfinished verses lay,
The faltering echo of a deeper song: —
O untaught harmony of Summer days!
The distant tinkle of a waterfall,
The blue blue sky that deepens as you gaze.
The wayward rose that blossoms by the wall!
Unspoiled and sweet in every country lane,
All dewy cool in maiden pink she blooms,
Still green and fragrant thro’ the Summer rain,
When freer airs are thrilled with light perfumes.
She blossoms close beside the dusty way.
Her heart the careless passer-by may see, —
Sweet is her fragrance thro’ the burning day,
But sweeter is her open secrecy!
Though he who will may pierce her leafy green,
Where sits the brooding robin on its nest,
The secret of her life is all unseen.
Unknown the impulse of her sweet unrest.
All day the winds about her cool the air.
Faint sounds the tinkle of the waterfall, —
What is the sudden answer you may bear,
O wayward rose, that blossoms by the wall?