A Rose

A rose, once plucked will surely die
Tis only, a case of when
True enough, a reason why
Yet if a man should think it, then

No rose would ever adorn
No beauty cherished, or sight to please
No wounds pricked upon a thorn
A simple rose, left in the breeze

Oh, still to flower, still to grow
Yet no perfume here would linger
and this beauty I would never know
Save the blood upon my finger

Should such a rose lie in the wilderness?
To be admired, if I pass by
Or plucked with love, and tenderness
In the hope, it shall not die