But more than all
others she loved the roses, and she had many
kinds of this flower, from the wild dog-rose with
its apple-scented green leaves to the most splendid,
large, crimson roses. They grew against the
garden walls, wound themselves around the pillars
and wind-frames, and crept through the
windows into the rooms, and all along the ceilings
in the halls. And the roses were of many colors,
and of every fragrance and form.
But care and sorrow dwelt in those halls. The
queen lay upon a sick-bed, and the doctors said
she must die.
``There is still one thing that can save her,''
said the wise man. ``Bring her the loveliest rose
in the world, the rose that is the symbol of the
purest, the brightest love. If that is held before
her eyes ere they close, she will not die.''
Then old and young came from every side with
roses, the loveliest that bloomed in each garden,
but they were not of the right sort. The flower
was to be plucked from the Garden of Love. But
what rose in all that garden expressed the highest
and purest love?
And the poets sang of the loveliest rose in the
world,--of the love of maid and youth, and of
the love of dying heroes.
``But they have not named the right flower,''
said the wise man. ``They have not pointed out
the place where it blooms in its splendor. It is
not the rose that springs from the hearts of youthful
lovers, though this rose will ever be fragrant
in song.
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