* * The poetry of Ruth T. Whittlesey * *

A Rose

The little old woman picked up a rose

And smiled and said, "Nobody knows,

No one but God, just how it grows.

"Highborn or low, shoddy or neat,

It nods to all, to all is sweet;

Its loveliness is there to greet.

"Can money buy a thing so dear?

For youth, for age, it's growing here.

This gift of God bringing us cheer."

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