192

O let me again in gardens of rose!
Or I shall go mad yearning for the rose!

O Garden immortal, what tongue could tell
A tale like the gardener of the rose?

O the tears of blood that now his garden flood,
Such is a heart stabbed by a gentle rose.

See now the crown of thorns worn in self-scorn
And stigmata earned by love of a rose.

How I swoon! pale as the light of the moon
Remembering the fragrance of a rose!

This heart! wistful, weary, it would depart
A life of care and her stinging rose.

So cover my shroud and verses sing aloud
And bury me with petals from my rose.

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