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A darling young bud of rose
Making way through her numerous dress folds,
Said to the prettiest maiden in the dance,
Who bore the most delicate countenance,
And the most humble regal elegance.
"Oh! You have the most graceful blossom,
Your blush vermillion, so handsome!
I hope one day I bloom like you,
Have a loveable charm and pious virtue.
So I'll also be loved by someone, for true"
"Well young lass, are you so sure
That with glorious whorls and nature demure,
You'd find true love,
In this world both black and mauve,
Where some died and others throve?"
"Why yes dear sister aren't you loved, truly by many too?"
"But how many of them love me, whole and true?
The perfumer loves me for my scented vigour
The painter for my purest colour
But who, in the two, loves me when I wither?"
"Then who shall love us, for us whole,
not for our looks, but for our soul?"
"Remember little one, remember forevermore,
A rose stays a rose even when withered and poor,
Be it in Eden's garden or in the dark moor.
In this world, loveless and blue,
Only two can love you true.
One is the poet's lover,
Who'll wear you like a crown in her hair
And make you a bookmark in heart's diary forever.
For even when you die and wither,
You will still be loved by her;
As the symbol of her lover, as an eternal
Gift of love, a timeless jewel,
As a memory, as love's angel.
Unluckily only the lucky get that heaven,
So hear what I say next well and even.
The other person is you and only you
Who can love you, even when you're grey and blue.
So, cherish your soul, in both sin, and virtue."
~ Feronia Grey
YOU ARE READING
Cottage Chronicles
PoetryLife's chronicles from love, sorrow, anger, guilt, shame, happiness buried in a poetic cipher. Would you like some words and wine, on wooden floorboards? ©️ Feronia Grey
