Moss Rose.... Confession of Love.
Reading edition
The origin of this exquisitely beautiful variety of the Rose is thus fancifully accounted for:—
The Angel of the Flowers one day, Beneath a Rose-tree sleeping lay, That spirit to whose charge is given To bathe young buds in dews from heaven. Awaking from his light repose, The angel whispered to the Rose, “O fondest object of my care, Still fairest found where all are fair, For the sweet shade thou hast given to me, Ask what thou wilt, ’tis granted thee.” Then said the Rose, with deepening glow, “On me another grace bestow.” The spirit paused in silent thought— What grace was there that flower had not? ’Twas but a moment—o’er the Rose A veil of moss the angel throws; And, robed in nature’s simplest weed, Could there a flower that Rose exceed? Anon.
They gather gems with sunbeams bright, From floating clouds and falling showers; They rob Aurora’s locks of light, To grace their own fair queen of flowers. Thus, thus adorned, the speaking rose Becomes a token fit to tell Of things that words can ne’er disclose, And naught but this reveal so well. Then take my flower, and let its leaves Beside thy heart be cherished near, While that confiding heart receives The thought it whispers to thine ear. Token, 1830.