The Rose

Who from his roses wards the rain,
So that their shoots no moisture gain,
He cannot tend the rose.
On roses there should fall the dew
And after that the sunshine too;
So may their buds unclose.
A rose there is—I weep her yet!—
Within so dense a thicket set,
No joys may come anear.
Her hapless case she must bewail;
Her crimson hue will soon grow pale,
Unless the ground's made clear.