The rose stands there,
On the vase, discarded.
Days have gone by, you know,
Since I last watered it.
And yet-
It stands.
Perched on the wooden table,
Yet it awaits it’s fulfillment.
Oh! How foolish it is!
To still
Look on the nights for-
Another hand,
Another heart, to grasp it’s stem.
To wait for another eye
To take in it’s delicate petals,
To smile upon it’s
Useless beauty!
For I know that-
Neither the Sun’s drops on it,
Nor it’s creamy glow
Can bring that forlorn lover back.
And neither can I.
And still it stands-
Against His yellow glance,
On the silvered vase,
Stands your Rose.
Poetry.inc 