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.