The Withered Rose
by Mary Ann Browne (1812-1845)
I saw at eve a wither’d rose—
The sun’s warm ray had curl’d it;
Its powerless leaves it could not close,
And dewy tears impearl’d it:
I saw a moon beam gently rest—
The withered flower it lighten’d
And though it could not dry its breast,
Those crystal drops it brighten’d.
I looked again—that moon beam fair
Had gilded o er its weeping,
And that sweet flow’ret calmly there
Beneath its ray was sleeping.
So when Misfortune’s night blast sears
Fair Friendship’s smile we borrow
And, tho’ it cannot dry our tears,
’Twill chase the gloom of sorrow.