Robs of its odor none so sweet a flower,
In all the blooming waste it left behind,
As that sweet-brier yields it; and the shower
Wets not a rose that buds in beauty’s bower
One half so lovely; yet it grows along
The poor girl’s pathway; by the poor man’s door.
Such are the simple folks it dwells among;
And humble as the bud, so humble be the song.
I love it, for it takes its untouch’d stand
Not in the vase that sculptors decorate;