I plucked a rose from out a bower fair, br That overhung my garden seat; br And wondered I if, e'er before, bloomed there br A rose so sweet. br br Enwrapt in beauty I scarce felt the thorn br That pricked me as I pulled the bud; br Till I beheld the rose that summer morn, br Stained with my blood. br br I sang a song that thrilled the evening air br With beauty somewhat kin to love, br And all men know that lyric song so rare br Came from above. br br And men rejoice to hear the golden strain; br But no man knew the price I paid, br Nor cared that out of my soul'd deathless pain br The song was made.