WASTE

I flung a wild rose into the sea, I know not why. For swinging there on a rathe rose-tree, By the scented bay and barberry, Its petals gave all their sweet to me, As I passed by.

And yet I flung it into the tide, And went my way. I climbed the gray rocks, far and wide, And many a cove of peace I tried, With none of them all to be satisfied, The whole long day.

For I had wasted a beautiful thing, Which might have won Each passing heart to pause and sing, On the sea-path there, of its blossoming. And who wastes beauty shall feel want's sting, As I had done.