The blossom sere hangs on the tree, The bud was plucked too soon, -- Nor will it know a singing night, That only graced a sunny noon. To dimming eyes the stars grow dim, And chill the lone night grows; Why does God leave the withered flower, And take the half-blown rose? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ARCHIMEDES LAST FORAY by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET IN THE CARPENTER'S SHOP by SARA TEASDALE |