With a rose

In the heart of a rose

Lies the heart of a maid;

If you be not afraid

You will wear it. Who knows?

In the pink of its bloom,

Lay your lips to her cheek;

Since a rose cannot speak,

And you gain the perfume.

If the dews on the leaf

Are the tears from her eyes;

If she withers and dies,

Why, you have the belief,

That a rose cannot speak,

Though the heart of a maid

In its bosom must fade,

And with fading must break.