“Or else I fear the mighty wind arose,
And blasted with its strength her petals frail;
Or did the scorching sunbeams burn my Rose
Within her leaves, and turn her beauty pale?...
“I think perhaps the flowers were wroth with me
And hid her from my sight; I’ll go to them.
Or else the clouds in cruel enmity
Sent hailstones down that broke her from the stem!”
Then all the flowers together made reply,
“We have no tidings of the Rose at all,