I cast aside a single dewy rose,
One blossom from the edge of the bouquet.
It wasn’t wilted yet. Its color glows,
Its petals curved and parted all the way,
Its leaves still green, and stem yet foliose,
And its deep scent keeps rising up to say
How firm it clings to life in fair repose,
And yet this fair sweet rose I cast away.

Like all the other blooms in this array,
Its stem is cut, and none shall last the day.
A prudent pruner is the one who knows
As one is wilting, there another grows.
There’s scarcely room for nascent ones to splay,
And little prospect for the ones that gray.

And so I cast a single rose away.