If the rose of all flowers be the rarest
  That heaven may adore from above,
  And the fervent moss-rose be the fairest
  That sweetens the summer with love,

  Can it be that a fairer than any
  Should blossom afar from the tree?
  Yet one, and a symbol of many,
  Shone sudden for eyes that could see.

  In the grime and the gloom of November
  The bliss and the bloom of July
  Bade autumn rejoice and remember
  The balm of the blossoms gone by.

  Would you know what moss-rose now it may be
  That puts all the rest to the blush,
  The flower was the face of a baby,
  The moss was a bonnet of plush.