Loveliest of flowers, the Rose now
Blossoms lovely among the thorns
Life for a bride forming a many colored bough
The passing of the seasons.
Rose, with light-hearted grace,
Brings grandeur to gardens,
Your ladies hair, lapels, a vase
Cares little of what happens;
But oh, to be a mere decoration!
Poor Rose, whose looks
Are counted more precious than her scent
It seems; and none brooks
That perfect innocence she is lent
As hidden, she peaks between the leaves.
Rose, they shake
The world with their intense fragility
That sad, regretful ache
That summons to mind the beauty
To bring life and death forever--with each stiring.