ROSES


Incessant fervent pleasant smell
How I love your crescent smile
From the vale veiled vision spread'
A view of bloody crescent red.

I tore through thorns to get to you,
And lo, a bush of graceful hue,
How your beauty stuck to my soul
Like wounds of thorny spikes in the sole.

A lover would not rest but wish
His princess here in bed doth lie,
In the middle of such scarcely cliché
And hark the singing bees that cry.

Swift and low, swift and low
They danced to the calming evening's blow.

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