The Blooming of the Rose

What is it like, to be a rose?

Old Roses, softly, "Try and see."

Nay, I will tarry. Let me be In my green peacefulness and smile. I will stay here and dream awhile. 'Tis well for little buds to dream, Dream—dream—who knows— Say, is it good to be a rose? Old roses, tell me! Is it good?

Old Roses, very softly, "Good."

I am afraid to be a rose! This little sphere wherein I wait, Curled up and small and delicate, Lets in a twilight of pure green, Wherein are dreams of night and morn And the sweet stillness of a world Where all things are that are unborn.

Old Roses, "Better to be born."

I cannot be a bud for long. My sheath is like a heart full blown, And I, the silence of a song Withdrawn into that heart alone, Well knowing that it shall be sung. Outside the great world comes and goes— I think I doubt, to be a rose—

Old Roses, "Doubt? To be a Rose!"