Isa (Craig) Knox (1831–1903)

UNTO a goodly tree—

A rose-tree—in the garden of my heart,

Grew up my love for thee!

Truth for its spreading root,

That drew the sweetest virtue of the soil

Up to the freshest shoot.

My tree was richly clad;

All generous thoughts and fancies burst the bud,

And every leaf was glad.

Then last of all, the flower,

The perfect flower of love, herself proclaimed

And ruled from hour to hour.

There came a thunder rain,

But for each full-blown bloom it scattered down,

Fresh buds it opened twain.

There came a wind that reft

Both leaf and flower, and broke both branch and stem;

Only the root was left.

The root was left, and so

The living rose lay hidden till the time

When the sweet south should blow.