Joseph Seamon Cotter (1861 - 1919)
I plucked a rose from out a bower fair,
That overhung my garden seat;
And wondered I if, e'er before, bloomed there
A rose so sweet.
Enwrapt in beauty I scarce felt the thorn
That pricked me as I pulled the bud;
Till I beheld the rose that summer morn,
Stained with my blood.
I sang a song that thrilled the evening air
With beauty somewhat kin to love,
And all men know that lyric song so rare
Came from above.
And men rejoice to hear the golden strain;
But no man knew the price I paid,
Nor cared that out of my soul'd deathless pain
The song was made.
Comments about this poem (Compensation by Joseph Seamon Cotter )
Top 500 Poems
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley