The Rose of Love

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Red, silver, black and gold
Pale-white as the moon
Patience may make it unfold
Though don't be asking soon
By nature wild, a briar tamed
Whose beauty caught the eye
Of some perceptive passerby
Whom need not now be named
Tilling soil most diligent
To him was this labor sent
Which passion once inflamed
For nothing was his labor spent--?

Such work is even one of those
This flower of the spring
To make it bloom, where it grows
All goodness to it bring
Though the thorns may come amiss
Strength has its own reward
Let them not long be ignored
Prune them should it come to this
Was it strange, do you suppose
A thing only a gardener knows
The petaled hair, the thorny kiss --
Every woman is a rose.

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