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."

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