The Poetry Corner

The Rose.

By William Cowper

The rose had been washd, just washd in a shower, Which Mary to Anna conveyd, The plentiful moisture encumberd the flower, And weighd down its beautiful head. The cup was all filld, and the leaves were all wet, And it seemd, to a fanciful view, To weep for the buds it had left, with regret, On the flourishing bush where it grew. I hastily seized it, unfit as it was For a nosegay, so dripping and drownd, And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas! I snappd it, it fell to the ground. And such, I exclaimd, is the pitiless part Some act by the delicate mind, Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart Already to sorrow resignd. This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, Might have bloomd with its owner a while; And the tear, that is wiped with a little address, May be followd perhaps by a smile.