I plucked a rose from out a bower fair, 
That overhung my garden seat; 
And wondered I if, e'er before, bloomed there 
A rose so sweet.

Enwrapt in beauty I scarce felt the thorn 
That pricked me as I pulled the bud; 
Till I beheld the rose that summer morn, 
Stained with my blood.

I sang a song that thrilled the evening air 
With beauty somewhat kin to love, 
And all men know that lyric song so rare 
Came from above.

And men rejoice to hear the golden strain; 
But no man knew the price I paid, 
Nor cared that out of my soul'd deathless pain 
The song was made.