The summer rose the sun has flushed With crimson¹ glory may be sweet； 'Tis sweeter when its leaves are crushed Beneath the wind's and tempest's feet.

    The rose that waves upon its tree, In life sheds perfume all around； More sweet the perfume floats to me Of roses trampled² on the ground.

    The waving rose with every breath Scents³ carelessly the summer air； The wounded rose bleeds forth⁴ in death A sweetness far more rich and rare. It is a truth beyond our ken⁵ —— And yet a truth that all may read —— It is with roses as with men, The sweetest hearts are those that bleed.

    The flower which Bethlehem saw bloom Out of a heart all full of grace, Gave never forth its full perfume Until the cross became its vase.