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THE SWEET-BRIER ROSE

Beside my cottage door it grows,
The loveliest, daintiest flower that blows—
A sweet-brier rose.

At dewy morn or twilight’s close,
The rarest perfume from it flows,—
This strange, wild rose.

But when the rain-drops on it beat,
Ah, then its odors grow more sweet,
About my feet!

Ofttimes with loving tenderness
Its soft green leaves I gently press
In sweet caress.

A still more wondrous fragrance flows,
The more my fingers firmly close,
And crush the rose!

* * *

Dear Lord, oh, let my life be so,—
Its perfume when the tempests blow,
The sweeter flow!

And should it be Thy blessed will
With crushing grief my soul to fill,
Press harder still.

And while its dying fragrance flows,
I’ll whisper low, “He loves and knows
His crushed brier-rose.” G. W. S. Jan. 20,’09.

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— April 15, 1909 —