This rose which makes my chamber sweet,
Cream-white, and full of rare perfume,
Defies the chill December day,
And makes a summer in my room;
For this one blossom signifies
The whole fair tropic's wealth of bloom.

But should some cold-eyed critic come
To scan its snowy blossoming,
Saying, “It is but faint and poor
To those which summer-time will bring;
Why linger with delighted eyes
Above the pale, imperfect thing?”

If this should be, would it destroy
My rose's bloom and scent for me?
Would my fond eyes grow dim or blind
Because another's could not see
The charm which bowers my wintry room
With summer's leafy luxury?

Ah, no! my rose would still be white,
Its odor still transport my sense;
And gazing in its golden heart,
My soul would find sweet recompense
For all the outside world's decay,
And all the beauty vanished thence.

Thus do I hold you, friend beloved:
My heart perceives you good and true;
My eyes behold you proud and brave,
With soul and eyes as clear as dew;
And all the envious tongues on earth
Could never change my love for you.

And other friends might stand afar,
Or cease to speak your once-loved name;
And all the world might pass you by,
Or all the world might chide or blame,
It would not make me deaf or blind;
And I should love you all the same!