“Aye rose! Or by whichever name
they may call thee,
no less sweet
thy smell would be.”
So truly said a sage,
all many ages ago,
for no name can lessen,
the burning beauty’s glow.
So let the other mortals
spend their mettle and might,
and let more metaphors
for thee they wish or indite.
And as the rest preen for thee,
many more minutes may die,
while at thy feet they quote,
their vows and sighs.
Let me not squander any such seconds
and abet in a crime,
but instead make a heap
and gather these gravels of time.
And so a treasure I will own,
to fight against the clock one day,
since from the time’s rule and wrath,
none ever has escaped away.
So when at thy doorstep does,
to obey the tenet of time age arrives,
into thy beauty’s hour-glass
be poured my treasure and so will thrive,
the mist laden in thy eyes,
the lips where softness abides,
the crown of the dark tresses,
that grandly on thy head lies.
Defeated thus will thy age,
to lay asleep back it’s home return,
unspoiled thy beauty would wake,
with every new rising sun.
And in this world when counted be,
instead of penny or pearl to make a sum,
the grace, the flair, and the charm,
then the richest may thou become.