With a Bouquet of Twelve Roses

I saw Lord Buddha towering by my gate Saying: "Once more, good youth, I stand and wait." Saying: "I bring you my fair Law of Peace And from your withering passion full release; Release from that white hand that stabbed you so. The road is calling. With the wind you go, Forgetting her imperious disdain— Quenching all memory in the sun and rain." "Excellent Lord, I come. But first," I said, "Grant that I bring her these twelve roses red. Yea, twelve flower kisses for her rose-leaf mouth, And then indeed I go in bitter drouth To that far valley where your river flows In Peace, that once I found in every rose."