The Withered Rose Poem by Mary Anne Browne

I saw, at eve, a wither'd rose-
The sun's warm ray had curl'd it ;
Its powerless leaves it could not close,
And dewy tears impearl'd it :

I saw a moon-beam gently rest -
The withered flower it lighten'd ;
And though it could not dry its breast,
Those crystal drops it brighten'd.

I looked again-that moon-beam fair
Had gilded o'er its weeping,
And that sweet flow'ret calmly there
Beneath its ray was sleeping.

So when Misfortune's night-blast sears,
Fair Friendship's smile we borrow ;
And, tho' it cannot dry our tears,
'Twill chase the gloom of sorrow.