To A Rose

Prose to a rose,
Is nothing more.
Than soft, gentle chants,
And a pen-dipped lore.

Of fragrant young blossoms,
Like garnets are hung.
Out by the garden-gate,
Where bird-songs are sung.

Like honey-bee ballads,
That silent things hear.
And the hush of a cricket,
When foot-falls are near.

The touch of soft-velvet,
And a breath made to hush.
That is held in a seizure,
Like a cheek put to blush.

O the magic of roses,
In an arbor-closed wall.
And the sadness of seeing,
Just one petal fall.


E.P. 1908 - 1989