ONCE a boy a Rosebud spied,
Heathrose fair and tender,
All array’d in youthful pride,–
Quickly to the spot he hied,
Ravished by her splendour.
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,
Heathrose fair and tender!
Said the boy, “I’ll now pick thee,
Heathrose fair and tender!”
Said the rosebud, “I’ll prick thee,
So that thou’lt remember me,
Ne’er will I surrender!”
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,
Heathrose fair and tender!
Now the cruel boy must pick
Heathrose fair and tender;
Rosebud did her best to prick,–
Vain ’twas ‘gainst her fate to kick–
She must needs surrender.
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,
Heathrose fair and tender!
-Goethe
Poem of the Month 
Ahh, German Romanticism, t’was a beautiful thing. I am always amazed at the sheer breadth, the scope, the mindboggling volume of Goethe’s writing. How many millions of words on how many subjects? This is a pretty little poem, an examplar of its type.