I plucked a rose from out a bower fair,
That overhung my garden seat;
And wondered I if, e'er before, bloomed there
A rose so sweet.
Enwrapt in beauty I scarce felt the thorn
That pricked me as I pulled the bud;
Till I beheld the rose, that summer morn,
Stained with my blood.
I sang a song that thrilled the evening air
With beauty somewhat kin to love,
And all men knew that lyric song so rare
Came from above.
And men rejoiced to hear the golden strain;
But no man knew the price I paid,
Nor cared that out of my soul's deathless pain
The song was made.