The rose that budded in blue heart,
Would cast radioactive glow,
And the abstract urn, burn and burn,
Till you mitigate by tidal flow.
No attempt of uprooting you can take,
All your faces would be but passing shadows,
Your ardent anguish would prick you as widow.
The rose that spirits your bee honey,
Stands un-withered and sunny,
And history and geography find there no role,
The that budded for your darling in the soul!