Poems (Laflin)/Why the Rose is Red

by Ellen P. Laflin

WHY THE ROSE IS RED.

NEAR two thousand years ago,
 On a hill by crosses crowned,
Mercifully a little brown bird
 Fluttered ever round and round.

All was silent on that hillside,
 Grim and gaunt the crosses rose;
Still the brown bird hovered closely
 With the hope it could not lose.

Gently it descended, softly,
 To the gentle thorn-crowned head;
Plucking at the darts which pierced it,
 Till its breast with blood was red.

Grasping in its beak a thorn,
 Flew away o'er hill and dale;
Flew until the morning light
 Glowing made some unknown vale.

Many times the sun had risen,
 Many times the stars had shone,
Still the bearer onward fleeting,
 Onward through the air alone,

And at last alighting softly
 On a bush where bloomed a single flower,
Pure white as the mountain snows
 Meant to deck a lady's bower.

Resting there upon the branches,
 As the drops his heart's blood drained,
Falling gently on the flower
 Which e'er more was scarlet stained.

When upon the rose I gaze,
 I think of the legend as 'twas told,
How the brave bird gave its life up
 In the bygone days of old,

How it flew across the countries,
 Paused upon the rose's tree,
Giving up the message to her
 From the hill of Calvary.