Our sweet autumnal western-scented wind
Robs of its odors none so sweet a flower,
In all the blooming waste it left behind,
As that the sweetbrier yields it. And the shower
Wets not a rose that buds in beauty's bower
One half so lovely, —yet it grows along
The poor girl's pathway—by the poor man's door.
Such are the simple folks it dwells among:
And humble as the bud, so humble be the song.

I love it, for it takes its untouched stand
Not in the vase that sculptors decorate,
Its sweetness all is of my native land,
And e'en its fragrant leaf has not its mate
Among the perfumes which the rich and great
Buy from the odors of the spicy east.
You love your flowers and plants— and will you hate
The little four-leaved rose that I love best,
That freshest will awake, and sweetest go to rest?