A TEAR welled up from a poet heart
And fell on a rose;
Lay there, bitter, and made it smart,--
The red, red rose!
Oh, the grief that wept it was full and pent,
And the sobbing pain-blood came and went
As song arose!
When the tear shall dry then shall song be spent;
O tear, lie still in thy bloomy tent,
And cherish thy pain in petal and scent,
Red, tear-filled rose.

The tear-drop hides in the rose's breast
For fear of a ray,--
For fear it should rise in the sun-lit air
And perish of glory and gladness there;--
O worst! O best!

So it quivers to music from day to day,
Hidden in scent and crimson away,
For fear of a ray in a rosy nest;--
O curst! O blest!
Shall the rose smile up in the eager sky
That the sun may give?
Or, shall grief be hidden, and passion shy,
That a song may live?
When the petals yield, then the tear shall dry;
If the heart be healed, so its song shall die;
As the poet grieves, so his music grows;--
O tear! O rose!
Shall song be sweet? or shall love be dear?
O tear-filled rose! and O poet's tear!
Who knows? Who knows?