The Clay to the Rose

O beautiful, royal Rose,
O Rose, so fair and sweet!
Queen of the garden art thou,
And I—the Clay at thy feet!

The butterfly hovers about thee;
The brown bee kisses thy lips;
And the humming-bird, reckless rover,
Their marvellous sweetness sips.

The sunshine hastes to caress thee
Flying on pinions fleet;
The dew-drop sleeps in thy bosom,
But I—I lie at thy feet!

The radiant morning crowns thee;
And the noon’s hot heart is thine;
And the starry night enfolds thee
In the might of its love divine;

I hear the warm rain whisper
Its message soft and sweet;
And the south-wind’s passionate murmur,
While I lie low at thy feet!

It is not mine to approach thee;
I never may kiss thy lips,
Or touch the hem of thy garment
With tremulous finger-tips.

Yet, O thou beautiful Rose!
Queen rose, so fair and sweet,
What were lover or crown to thee
Without the Clay at thy feet?