THE WILD ROSE.
211
Did the wee white rose ever think of her lonely life, That there were none to care if she tried to grow;None to care if the cloud that hung in the west Should burst, and scatter her pale leaves far and low?Did she ever wish that the heavy cloud would fallAnd hide her, so unblest, from the sight of all?
One sky bends o'er rich garden flowers, and those That dwell in barren soil, untended and unblest;And I think that God was pleased with the small white rose, That tried so patiently to live and do its best;That bravely kept its small leaves pure and fairOn the waste of dreary sand, and the desert air.
