The Withered Rose-Tree

By Peter Burn

I was walking through my garden,
On a sunny morn in May,
When I found a withered rose-tree,
Careless hands had thrown away.
So I took it, and re-set it—
For its nature well I knew—
And each day I fondly nurs’d it,
Till it struck its roots and grew.
Soon the rose-tree, once so fragile,
Threw out branches fresh and strong,
Oft as bow’r it served the linnet,
Pouring to his mate his song.
Summer came, in all its fulness,
And the garden-bloom grew fair,
But the rose-tree, crown’d with beauty,
Shone the queen of flowers there.

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