A White Rose said, "How fair am I.
Behold a flower that cannot die!"
A lover brushed the dew aside,
And fondly plucked it for his bride.
"A fitting choice!" the White Rose cried.
The maiden wore it in her hair;
The Rose, contented to be there,
Still proudly boasted, "None so fair!"
Then close she pressed it to her lips,
But, weary of companionships,
The flower within her bosom slips.
O'ercome by all the beauty there,
It straight confessed, "Dear maid, I swear
'Tis you, and you alone, are fair!"
Turning its humbled head aside,
The envious Rose, lamenting, died.