Compensation

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.