War of the Rose

Drenched upon the battle field Under silver weapons wield Misdirection her only shield The wildest of roses grew Upon the blush of her pretty head Stained with what men had bled White petals puckered in brilliant red The Whitest wild rose glimpsed hell When the battle scene lie deaf And not a soul to love was left Moonlight filled the tears she wept And the Rose pitied the man Winter came, life kissed death With the sweep of a snowy breath Pale hands of the woman Macbeth Washed White to red to grey Well summer come and summer go No eye that lays upon her knows Her blushing color is to show How red is to remember