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Homage

I have told you much of the flowers in my garden,
And many yet remain of which I have not told,
But when I would tell you of the roses, the roses—
When it comes to the roses, how should I find words?

Yet to them I would consecrate a few faltering sentences
As they grow in their companies by colour and by kind.
Did I but enumerate the tale of chosen roses,
It would surely bring, to the chosen listener, joy.

Their names may be recorded; but what record might be given
Of their symmetry, spell-binding scents, the depth
And gradual brilliance of eye-reposing hue?
No need, no need; when one speaks the word roses, roses,
All their beauty and significance is spoken too.

Roses of Persia, Roses of Damascus;
Roses held up for sale in Piccadilly Circus;
Roses for queens’ bedchambers, and the costermongers’ holiday;
Roses for the tender babe’s first apprehensions;
And for the sage’s mystic contemplations;
Roses for marriage pomps, and the dear maid’s untimely bier;
Roses for fame, pride, joy, romance,

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Rapture, remembrance, solace in sore pain;
Symbols of secrecy, truth, love, holiness;
Roses on the green graves of our mortality,
Roses by the green walks of the New Jerusalem—

So, to all you, my lovely roses, Hail.