In our small town so long ago, a rose dwelt, we presume
She was her father’s pride and joy it says so on her tomb.
When other lesser buds were bursting and had spread their bloom
Her radiance remained to blossom and to fill each room.
Abundant suitors came to pluck this rose fore it full grew
They flocked about as bees that buzz to suckle and to woo.
“ My primrose young pay them no mind,” indeed papa, he knew
That age must pay with vapid tears, for youth that reckless flew.
As years passed swiftly autumn took the color from her cheek,
Papa grew old to wander in delusions of the weak.
At length her safety preyed upon his mind and thus he’d speak,
“ Take care my child, this world endows that which devours the meek.”
Now many a young buck had come to sup and dance and wine,
While many a shy lad could only pass and glance and pine.
This wilting flower stood alone there withered on the vine
For one last heartsick boy to beg anew, “ Wilt thou be mine? ”
Papa, he died and left her with no love to be consoled,
Her prime had done, her virtue cherished and now worn like gold.
One final suitor dared to step into her life so bold
With courage strong just ere that gentle bud had grown too cold
He sought her hand, alas, she could not love him though she knew,
Her father’s words there echoed in her mind with force rung true.
She turned away that lonesome lad with wistful weeping rue,
He came no more he traveled on his way to pastures new.
This tender timid rose left clinging to youth’s lost sunshine
Some lonely fragment that was plucked not from its slow decline.
False caution willed that heart to linger ever on old vine
Where sense and fear were elements necessity combined.
Claire V. Bogdanos 