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A TEAR welled up from a poet heart And fell on a rose; Lay there, bitter, and made it smart,-- The red, red rose! Oh, the grief that wept it was full and pent, And the sobbing pain-blood came and went As song arose! When the tear shall dry then shall song be spent; O tear, lie still in thy bloomy tent, And cherish thy pain in petal and scent, Red, tear-filled rose. The tear-drop hides in the rose's breast For fear of a ray,-- For fear it should rise in the sun-lit air And perish of glory and gladness there;-- O worst! O best! So it quivers to music from day to day, Hidden in scent and crimson away, For fear of a ray in a rosy nest;-- O curst! O blest! Shall the rose smile up in the eager sky That the sun may give? Or, shall grief be hidden, and passion shy, That a song may live? When the petals yield, then the tear shall dry; If the heart be healed, so its song shall die; As the poet grieves, so his music grows;-- O tear! O rose! Shall song be sweet? or shall love be dear? O tear-filled rose! and O poet's tear! Who knows? Who knows? Louisa Sarah Bevington (1845-1895) |
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| The Poet's Tear. |
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