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Graced not would I be by any flower,
For His wounds immortal be.
His kiss, the presence of an hour,
Whilst, my love, thou art eternity.

Yet will I give a dying bloom,
Joyously, hoping to show,
To thou, who art my groom,
That, with my love, these petals grow
With much the same perfume
That on the autumn winds eternal flow.

Ah! Thou! Thou my love with such grace,
All other beauty is swept away,
For naught is as fair as thy face.
Though a dead man should I lay,
Ashes only in some shadowed place,
My entombèd heart, by night and by day,
Would all its life with thee retrace,
To dream of each cherished bouquet.

A rose! A rose I need not from thee,
For to give much sweeter is,
For to give a rose as well may be
To give my soul within a kiss.

© 2021 Marten Hoyle