Sweet citrus, if only the thorns be sweet as thou art
Then no white roses would be turned red
Thus no hearts of the lovers would be broken
By their innoncent token
But then how could that handsome Adonis
To wake again through the red petals
Of Venus’ love? And how else
Might Juliet refer to her Romeo’s sadness?

Thou art not there, or art thou?
To see the pure flowers of citrus bloom, though
White they might be, and delicate they are, sweet
Might they be, not as thou art
But the power of red rose was great:
The Don Juan, though his Triumphant was lost.
The white rose says, with a curtsey,
”Twas a mid-summer’s night,that he left, my Lady’

‘Twas the mid-summer’s night
When the moor was cool and the star bright
And when the thick woollen cardigan
Shed her warmth on me, and the Draught of Rohan
Brought back the precious
Them, the Realm of the Rings
Where I had last seen
Thou, who had left unseen

Quaere, if no white roses been turned red
Would there be any story been read
About those lovers’ fierce love?
And those joyous flocking of owls and dove
Whom, by the name of Him
Could find where thou art? Shame
Or naive. Or at least to tell me where to start
Those chilly memories are hard to depart

The blazing fire could not understand
Why should the candle be on its stand
And why the moth of the faraway land
Dance its minuet on Her hand
His shadow on the round lake
His stay for the roses’ sake
Nor the harp’s twang
Or the Chizpurfle’s fang

Sweet citrus, if the thorns be sweet
As thou art, and the ravens tweet
As canary does, would the illusion be
Still the same? Or maybe the bumble bee
Can hum the brown bear a requiem
As the last respect on the field, the firm
Fare thee well. The roses’ grace, the means
By which they distil the Divine in themselves

Roses, thou who bloom
To bear the gloom
And listen to the Lacrymosa, the chimes
In the church and the rhymes
Thou beauty that surpasses
All laughters and kisses
Might thou tell me
Why did the silver moth glee at His gleam?

June, 2010