Less hardy than the Rose,
She comes to us in Spring,
In many a guise she grows,
This delicate young thing.

Her nectared tongue is mute,
She promises us naught,
She bears no splendid fruit,
’Tis not for that she’s wrought.

Her slender limbs are frail,
Yet she is quite complete.
She will not yield, nor fail,
Her scent is ever sweet.

Her strength, where it is found,
Owes nothing to her touch,
She draws it from the ground
With but the feeblest clutch.

And when her time is come,
Her naked beauty bared,
Philosophers are dumb
That such delights are shared.

For though they try, mere men
Could never understand
The tracing of the pen
In her Designer’s hand.

[Originally published in VIRIDIAN.]

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