Parable of the Rose
"How lovely grows this rose,"
the lover said,
"its petals fresh and sweet,
its leaves so green;
I give to it my heart,
and all my life.
Forever shall I love its splendor fair
and be its knight!"
The thorns were wicked sharp;
they drew his blood,
and yet he persevered.
His love was true
for freshly blossomed blooms
of of ruby hue.
But winters come, and snows;
and petals fell,
and nothing but the thorns
were left to hold.
"Alas, I was deceived!"
the lover said,
and left it there to stand
in bitter ice.
O faithless lover, think!
Can winter thaw?
Can bushes bloom again
with petals bright?
Was not to love the bloom
to bear the thorns?
Was not the winter price
of spring and growth?
Does not the earth return
around the sun,
elliptic roll the year,
and season change?
And more than this, yes, more,
can you not see
that one who loves the bloom,
and truly loves,
will love the bush that blooms,
and love it more,
though long may grow its thorn
upon the stem,
though winter shear the flower
and leave it bare?
