To Whom a Rose is Due

B’side laughing brook, ‘neath yon willow tree,

There flourishes a rose quite exquisite

A glorious red, one’s breath doth take,

Its splendor, a couple did visit.

The boughs of the willow, guard blooming delight,

From those seeking nature’s repose.

But one day a man with his lady beside,

Took refuge, discov’ring the rose.

A beauty so rare, none else can compare,

Carnelian blush, aglowing.

Admiring the bloom, in the safe willow’s tomb,

A masterful gift unfolding.

Examining the petals, the stem, and the thorns,

Incomparable, flawless in form.

Slipping out from the tree, in the cool eve’ning breeze,

A commitment of love now is born.

The man dropped to his knee, and with one simple plea,

Begged her hand in a marriage endeavor,

With an affirmative kiss, oh the joy, oh the bliss,

They would now spend their whole life together.

Now the man knew in truth, that the most comely of flow’rs,

Strolled beside, and for her he did fall.

Sprinting back to the tree, he dropped down to one knee,

Picking the rose for the fairest of all.