In mead where roses bloom

In mead, where roses bloom,

I saw a withered rose.

"Ah," sighed I, "how has doom

struck thee, as love's fierce woes

have blighted my sad heart,

faint with their bitter smart."

"I dreamed," the rose replied,

"my nightingale was near;

morn waked me, and denied

that dream's beguilement dear.

Bereft and lone, I die,

since love no more is nigh."

"Alas, poor rose," I wept,

"Thy lot and mine are one.

Joy found me, where I slept,

but fled, when sleep was done.

Why could not morn delay

until the judgment day?"