A Hothouse where some roses blew,
And, whilst the outer world was white,
The gentle roses softly grew
To fragrant visions of delight.

Some wretched florist owned them all,
And plucked them from their native bowers,
Then gaily showed them on his stall
To swell the ranks of "Fresh-Cut Flowers."

_Some_ went beside a bed of pain
Where influenza claimed its due;
They drooped and never smiled again,
The epidemic had them too.

A gay young gallant bought some buds,
And jauntily went out to dine
With other reckless sporting bloods,
Who talked of women, drank of wine;

But whilst they talked, and smoked, and drank,
And told tales not too sanctified.
Abashed the timid blossoms shrank,
Changed colour, faded, and then died.

Yet roses, too, I gave to you,
I saw you place them near your heart,
You wore them all the evening through,
You wore them when we came to part.