No rose without a thorn but many a thorn without a rose. /endquote
Ponder a bit.
What of a rose that wilts come the season next;
fragrance, colour, and more, world calls her at dawn.
Wherefore the human, calling her presence blest;
crumples galore, she's a broken carriage drawn.
When I exist she says, my fragrance pervades;
to the cynic that worries it makes not a change.
The lord here cometh, to his fine old a grange;
he sees me of worth, not his mountain of jades.
Not long my love, smiles the seeming cynic;
the lord's taste remains, you but a humble chalice.
Your crumbling, his grumbling, I tell sans malice;
the day ahead, your falling off the lord's tunic.
The cynic remains, seated at the conjurer's booth;
a flower, a bouquet, and more his life thus far seen.
Starting with steam, each one calling herself queen;
alas! the young flowers running away from truth.