The Young Rose

A breezy summer wind one day
Blew in a handsome bee
“I seek a rose, a sweet, sweet rose
“But none so far I see.”

A gentle rose who hid behind
A slender willow tree
Shyly showed a soft young face
“I think I’m one, Mr. Bee.”

“Really? But you are so pale!
So deathly white to see
I want a rose that’s bold and red
That does appeal to me.”

The young rose thought then turned away
And held its breath to squeeze
A pale pink tear from stinging eyes
And stained itself to please.

“Hmm! Better! I do think so.
But you’re too short for me
I need someone like marigold
Who reaches up to me.”

The young rose thought then turned away
And stretched high up the tree
To give a petal, a pale pink petal
But could not reach the Bee.

“So you look tall, a bit red too
But you’re not sweet, you see
I need perhaps this jasmine here
Who softly perfumes me.”

The young rose thought then turned away
And reached into its heart
And drew up all its fragrant life
And let it all depart.

“Oh look at you, you look so strange
A red rose there I see
I want that rose, that sweet, red rose
You look too strange to me.”