What graceless mood comes upon me?
Oh, it is but a mere misprint in time.
I, myself, dare I to flee
The love, the non-love, the rhyme?
And when solace suffices,
It brings along some red, red rose.
One of softness of all devices,
One lonely creature, I suppose.
I inevitably stand stirring,
As intoxicated must be this hour.
Or, is this rose her nouns slurring?
Oh how drunken is this flower?
Nevertheless, she brings me time.
Time and time again she heals
Aches of past to grow sublime.
Some power in me she reveals.
Reaches to mend with a prickly hand,
He, my heart never warned.
But how so luminously one can stand,
Yet so abundantly thorned?
How foolish is my query!
How dense are my thoughts?
I challenge this new theory
Of modern love, for robots.
In love we are with colors and shapes;
With eyes, with cheeks, and ginger hair.
When plastic love our passion rapes,
We feel the gladness.in despair.
Surely, even roses die,
But roses love and love ever true.
Though only in may, June and July,
A rose from love does never skew.
