by Maurice Sassoon

Created on: November 04, 2008

The other day, I saw a lovely rose, poised gracefully o'er its fragile stem; the dazzling, blinking sun fliratiously appeared

to make it blush crimson red;

Fully abashed, yet ready to expose, with neither nonchalance nor icy phlegm,* its scented self, as so vivaciously it thrusted out

its brightly-petaled head.

Today, the soil is bare and left alone, without the beauty of its only rose; I witness not but one expectant bed where down

beneath the germs of love abide -

The source from which beauty must be born, not to remain in any long repose, but soon exhaust its energy instead, around

itself with dignity and pride.

In its own time and oft-beleaguered space, each of its kind must play a common role within some garden of a yearning

heart, while in its own ability confide,

And hold itself with undiminished grace, never failing to charm the human soul; and so the rose is Nature's ageless art

which time itself could never brush aside.

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