Rose of the World, I confess--
But for every rose I have sung before
I love you the more, not less.

Perfect it grew by each rose that died,
Each rose that has died for you,
The song that I sing--yea, 'tis no new song,
It is tried--and so it is true.

Petal or thorn, yea! I have no care,
So that I here abide;
Pierce me, my love, or kiss me, my love,
But keep me close to your side.

I know not your kiss from your scorn, my love,
Your breast from your thorn, my rose,
And if you must kill me, well, kill me, my love!
But--say 'twas the death I chose.

'Is it true?' asked the Rose.

'As I am a nightingale,' I replied; and as we bade each other
good-night, I whispered:

'When may I expect the Answer of the Rose?'




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