The Rose: A Sonnet

A common seed- the thousandth spawn
That knew not fate had kindly blessed
Beheld first light upon a dawn
In a nurtured garden’s soil nest

From the stem there blossomed beauty
Perfumed sweet pink buds awoken
The skillful gardener severed three
Then wrapped tenderly the chosen

Spied I in the florist’s window
Three blessed beacons of my love
Bestowed to her, but her bestowed
In truth to them my splendid dove

For through the rest of their blessed days
Their fortuned fixed glance her face

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