A rose-tree blossomed beside the way
From day to day in sun and shower;
But never a traveler, grave or gay,
Had stopped to notice the fragrant flower.
An artist came to the spot, and lo!
His soul was lit with the splendid flame;
And on the canvas he caused to grow
The rose, but he gave it a noble name.
The odorless flower in his studio hung,
And they who had seen the wayside rose
Remembered it then, its praise was sung,
No longer it grew in unsought repose.
There were many to pluck the blossoms then,
There were many to waste them in heated halls;
For such are the reckless ways of men
There's none to care when a rose-leaf falls.
In the market-place a singer stood
And sang to the listeners a song of life,
But none of the multitude understood
There were none to care in the busy strife.
The weary singer turned aside,
But one was there to whom the song
Rang like a trumpet far and wide,
And wakened a memory deep and long.
A peer was he, and his power was great,
He sang to the listeners that song again;
And the eager multitude scarce could wait
For the singer's voice in the sweet refrain.
The market-place singer might revel then
In heart-songs heard and trilled by all,
For such are the reckless ways of men
They heed not the rose till its petals fall.