Saturday, June 06, 2015

The Rose

A rose no less the sweet, this summer did birth
Now lies less noble; wilting upon the earth
You would think of me injured by this deed
And in blush of crimson my heart does bleed
Who wreaks such war on my revered ground?
Blame lies beyond doubt upon raggedy hound
In the eager hunt his canine nose doth tread
Upon the grass and over fragrant flower bed
But have a care as you ramble without fear
To be more gentle with William Shakespeare