In the heart of a rose
Lies the heart of a maid;
If you be not afraid
You will wear it. Who knows?
In the pink of its bloom,
Lay your lips to her cheek;
Since a rose cannot speak,
And you gain the perfume.
If the dews on the leaf
Are the tears from her eyes;
If she withers and dies,
Why, you have the belief,
That a rose cannot speak,
Though the heart of a maid
In its bosom must fade,
And with fading must break.