I entered dutiful, God knows, <br />The room in which I was to sit <br />With dreary unbelieving books. <br />It was surprising, I suppose, <br />To find such happy change in it: <br />There stood a most celestial rose <br />And looked the flower that my love looks <br />Who, where she turns her smiling face <br />Makes heavy earth a hopeful place. <br /> <br /> <br />I blessed the heart that wished me well <br />When I had been bereft of much, <br />And brought such word of beauty back. <br />I went like one escaping hell <br />To drink its fragrance and to touch, <br />And stroked, O ludicrous to tell! <br />A horrid thing of bric-a-brac, <br />A make-believe, a mockery, <br />And nothing that a rose should be. <br /> <br /> <br />Red real roses keep a thorn, <br />And save their loveliness a while <br />And in their perfect date unfold. <br />But you, beyond all women born, <br />Have spent so easily your smile, <br />That I am not the less forlorn <br />Nor these ironic walls less cold, <br />Because it smiles, the chilly rose, <br />As you are smiling, I suppose.<br /><br />John Crowe Ransom<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/roses-59/
