I thank thee, Zapel. Now there grows a flower
Wild 'neath the castle walls, a yellow rose
It seems, of stubborn habit, branching low;
When walking on the ramparts I have seen it,
And wondered whence it drew its sustenance,
In scattered tufts upon the waste sea sand;
Go to the gate, and say I sent thee forth;
And pluck me blooms, and a young stem of it
That I may plant at home: if it should thrive,
It shall be proud I ever looked upon it.