A Crimson rose unfolded boldly,
Waving it's flaming beauty high,
But not a soul was in the garden,
To see it blaze against the sky.

The spring was a threadbare dream,
Summer was a vanquished foe,
The wind of winter held it's breath,
Before scattering first snow.

The rose was like a banner,
A beacon to light up the day,
For what is the purpose of beauty,
If hope has blown away?

How fleeting the sunniest hours,
Before winter comes to call,
Oh, better to be a late blossom,
Then never to bloom at all.

Louise C. Wilson