The Sonnet Of The Rose

Love is a rose with soft petals of red,

But wicked thorns are spread across its stem,

Singing the sad melodies of the dead:

Of foredoomed loves lost and lovers condemned.

No regret is sung, for the rose’s scent

Is all the blind bliss that men may desire.

With their minds full of fever dreams, half dreamt,

Young lovers condemn caution to the pyre.

For the red rose of Love is something rare,

Which too many never found, or have lost:

Warmed by memories of warmth, they despair,

Never tithing the rose’s scarlet cost.

Blood flows as young lovers hold their Love close:

Its thorns pierce, but they must not let it go.