The Rose

James Whitcomb Riley

It tossed its head at the wooing breeze;

And the sun, like a bashful swain,

Beamed on it through the waving trees

With a passion all in vain, --

For my rose laughed in a crimson glee,

And hid in the leaves in wait for me.

The honey-bee came there to sing

His love through the languid hours,

And vaunt of his hives, as a proud old king

Might boast of his palace-towers:

But my rose bowed in a mockery,

And hid in the leaves in wait for me.

But time passed by in a strange disguise,

And I marked it not, but lay

In a lazy dream, with drowsy eyes,

Till the summer slipped away,

And a chill wind sang in a minor key:

Where is the rose that waits for thee?