A humble wild-rose, pink and slender, Was plucked and placed in a bright bouquet, Beside a Jacqueminot?s royal splendour, And both in my lady?s boudoir lay. Said the haughty bud, in a tone of scorning, `I wonder why you are called a rose? Your leaves will fade in a single morning; No blood of mine in your pale cheek glows. `Your course green stalk shows dust of the highway, You have no depths of fragrant bloom; And what could you learn in a rustic byway To fit you to lie in my lady?s room? `If called to adorn her warm, white bosom, What have you to offer for such a place, Beside my fragrant and splendid blossom, Ripe with colour and rich with grace? Said the sweet wild-rose, `Despite your dower Of finer breeding and deeper hue, Despite your beauty, fair, high-bred flower, It is I who should lie on her breast, not you. `For small account is your hot-house glory Beside the knowledge that came to me When I heard by the wayside love?s old story And felt the kiss of the amorous bee.?