To a Rose

Why do I love thee?--
Not because thy wak'ning lips
Were wooed to bloom by minstrel wind
Of Araby or Ind.

Not because thy fragrance slips
Into my soul--as if thou must
Be sprung of a mother's dust.

Not because she gave her breast
To thee for one long night--she whose
Pure heart I ne'er shall lose.

But when I lay in sick unrest
Afar from those who are my own,
Thou camest from hands unknown:
Therefore I love thee!