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A Rose
I had a dozen roses, Love,
all growing, so Divine;
A dozen long stemmed roses, Love,
of which were called of Mine,
but the winds of change, my Love,
have blown the blooms away
and, now, I have but four roses
to call my own today.
My friends are kind, but, Oh, so blind
with eyes that cannot see
a rose is but a rose,
but a rose much more to me ...
...and, so, the three picked three.
I have but one rose left, my Love;
--a rose to call my own--
To place here in your garden, Love;
--my Sweetness, Bone of bone--
Though, be thee more than fragrant rose;
--than any that I've known--
Please, take this rose that was, my Love;
to flourish and to bloom ...
Please, let this rose be placed, my Love;
...so gently on your tomb.