There climbs a rose;
Like to herself it blooms full fair,
Oft in the night of her raven hair
Its crimson .glows.
To me she has given many flowers,
But ever on my suit she lowers
When I propose;
And vainly I have pled for hours
To gain that rose.
She turns the verse I fondly plan,
To plainest prose;
So now I find I'm not the man
Who'll win the rose.
___Perlee R. Bennett