The Rose

Although my flowers garner all the praise-- Are celebrated both for hue and scent-- Remember they are servants of my deepest need, No less than roots or leaves, no less than stems. Enslaved in garden beds per your desire, My blossoms, bright, perfumed, in fact are aimed At my companions: bees and butterflies. And though you pluck my blooms, too often they End up as petals scattered by a vase. Therefore remember: blossoms giving such Delight are not without a keen defense. Now pick them at your peril: sharpest thorns Await you should you, heedless, bear them hence.