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You ask me what is love, I say it’s naught. For love can not be framed in logic’s reason; What mind can comprehend those yearnings wrought In hearts enraptured in love’s vernal season? Behold the rose in bloom ‘neath summer’s sky, Drenched in the morning dew, her fleeting fashion Sparks fission in the musing poet’s eye, His quill is filled to brim with ardent passion; For passion’s root lies buried in mortality, Yet love transposes finite mortal measure, A moment shared becomes perpetuality, A stolen kiss, immortalized forever. Two mortal hearts flushed bright with love’s vermilion, Walk boldly, hand-in-hand, into oblivion.
‘She, this rustic rose, now drenched in dew?’ Image: DLady, pixabay.com
The Virtue of the Rose
The rose does not esteem her generations Nor marvel in the beauty of her fashion, She can not prize her fragrant emanations, In her, vermilion’s hues incite no passion; When on the bush her virtue counts as pleasure, Though thorny brambles make no plush brocade, Yet she transforms exquisite beyond measure When picked to fade adorning my love’s braid; From where ensues this virtue she defines? She, this rustic rose, now drenched in dew, If not that though she fade a thousand times Those many times shall she travail anew. Immortalized when kissed by mortal breath, The rose’s virtue lies in mocking death.
Gorse blossoming in snow Image: healingherbs.co.uk
I do not pray to increment my days Nor plead to ease my modest situation, I care not for a life of lavish ways Nor seek the power to rule over a nation. Though least among the blooms the gorse revive To flower midst the winter snow; yet I, Who bear no bloom and in my seed must thrive, But struggle forth and in one season die. To what then might this mortal weed aspire? Made less than gorse—ambition is but vain, But ah, mortality, my passion’s fire! You are my joy, though you shall be my bane; For gorse is neither virtuous nor trite, Save framed by mortal eyes in passion’s light.