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...THE MASK by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE SONG OF SHERMAN'S ARMY by CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE SIBERIA by JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN SONNET: 31 by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY MY FAMILIAR by JOHN GODFREY SAXE SIC VITA by HENRY DAVID THOREAU A JEWISH FAMILY; IN A SMALL VALLEY OPPOSITE ST. GOAR by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE ART OF PRESERVING HEALTH: BOOK 3. ON WASHING by JOHN ARMSTRONG |