The Rose I know is not a flower,
But she’s more sweet to me
Than all the blossoms all around
On every bush and tree.
And this whole valley, bright with dews,
Like a chandelier layed down,
Has most intense of sparkling views
When Rose comes into town.
Sometimes the wind is soft and free,
And sometimes hard and strong.
Or is it Rose that’s walking by,
Or running up with song?
And when machines begin their humming,
And builders start to pound,
I know that Rose is doing something
To make the world go ’round.
The flowers we have are only flowers,
The wind, a something that somehow goes;
At work we have the measure-notes of beauty—-
The steady, singing competence of Rose.