To Hilda Of Her Roses
ENOUGH has been said about roses
To fill thirty thick volumes;
There are as many songs about roses
As there are roses in the world
That includes Mexico . . . the Azores… Oregon…
It is a pity your roses
Are too late for Omar . . .
It is a pity Keats has gone . . .
Yet there must be something left to say
Of flowers like these!
They pushed their way
Through dewy tunnels of the June night
Now they confer…..
A little tremulous…..
Dazzled by the yellow sea-beach of morning
If Herrick would tiptoe back . . .
If Blake were to look this way