Jonathan ROBIN (22 September / London)

Of all that nature’s garden grows
the fairest flower is the Rose,
bending to each breeze that blows.

Rose beauty, joy, together sows, -
‘Tis true, as everybody knows, -
inadequately penned in prose.

For from her crown all colour flows,
her petals pink or red she shows,
with white or amber, golden glows.

‘Tis said, or so the story goes,
her spiny thorns are elf arrows
to scare the sprites from the meadows.

In slumber see her heart enclose
bee’s happiness, in sweet repose,
unsullied by harsh winter snows.

Both dark and bright, white, virgin shows, -
the rose from Paradise arose,
and on Time's wing she blows, she blows.