English poem
The WITHERED ROSE
by Anonymous
Sweet object of the zephyr's kiss, Come, Rose, come courted to my bower: Queen of the banks! the garden's bliss! Come and abash yon' tawdry flower.
Why call us to revokeless doom? With grief the op'ning buds reply; Not suffer'd to extend our bloom, Scarce born, alas! before we die!
Man having pass'd appointed years, Ours are but days—the scene must close: And when Fate's messenger appears, What is he but a Withering Rose?