A crimson rose, that in a garden grew,
One summer day upraised its fragrant head;
And looking proudly round: "What should I do,
If I were not a lovely flower?" it said.
"Sad must it be to fill a humble place,
And live unnoticed throughout all your days,
Gifted with neither loveliness nor grace,
Nor anything that calls for words of praise."
Scarce had it ceased to speak, when from each side
Of the tall bush, that held it tenderly,
In gentle chorus voices sweet replied:
"Oh lovely flower, no lovely flowers are we,
But leaves and stems; and yet, without our aid,—
Our faithful aid,—you never had been seen.
That you might come in crimson robes arrayed,
Long have we toiled, in modest dress of green:
"Sunshine we stored away, to bring you strength;
To you we gave the nectar of the showers;
And with the greatest joy, we saw at length
You turn from tiny bud to Queen of Flowers;
And we are happy, knowing we've done all,
Being but leaves and stems, that we could do;
Although but little praise to us may fall—
Yes, happy and content, fair Rose, as you."
