The Wilted Rose Poem by John Florio

Mysteriously bloomed in a fair clime,
Lied in waiting for none to pluck;
Hiding its dignity and beauty in prime,
Always prays for its best of luck.

He who plucked it, didn't keep it well,
Used it in the exchange of hearts;
Loyalty was its honor, it rung the bell,
Of their hearts, two detached parts.

United their hearts and made them love,
It felt worthy to see them smiling;
For its untimely death, the heaven above,
It thought, would never be crying.

The broken rose, crushed and withered,
Had desired this good thing to do;
Of sacrificing its life, yet not be ditherd,
Making others' dreams come true.