The roses were glad when I was young,
But rose is old.
Too long have I been searching for one
Better than gold.
Weary my feet have beaten this earth
And, though my hands be warmed by fire,
My heart is cold.
How many ages until I find
My heart's desire?
How many roads till my heart is warmed
By better fire?
How long till my weary feet
May cease from seeking?
Bitter, bitter is the road,
And bitter havoc in my heart
Despair is wreaking.
Thus spake he to the barren bush
That grows beside the road;
And as he spoke, the sun came up
And every dewdrop glowed,
As sun and dew and dawn conspired
To wash away earth's woes,
And touched the bent back, lightening
Its weary load;
And in the dawn he smiled to see
A new-born rose.