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Withdrawn into that heart alone,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!"
Anna Hempstead Branch