The rose in the garden slipped her bud,	
And she laughed in the pride of her youthful blood,	
As she thought of the Gardener standing by —	
“He is old — so old! And he soon must die!”	
 
The full Rose waxed in the warm June air,
And she spread and spread till her heart lay bare;	
And she laughed once more as she heard his tread —	
“He is older now! He will soon be dead!”	
 
But the breeze of the morning blew, and found	
That the leaves of the blown Rose strewed the ground;
And he came at noon, that Gardener old,	
And he raked them gently under the mould.	
 
And I wove the thing to a random rhyme:	
For the Rose is Beauty; the Gardener, Time.