White Rose

Sonnet of the White Rose

Am I the quintessence of innocence?

So be it. But I have thorns. Is this not

paradox? Oh lovely dualesence!

Why do you pluck me? Is it then my lot

to be cut and thrust into that clear vase

that any may adore me? Or ignore?

What a fortune for beauty! To serve base

lust, to please the eye—poetry implore . . .

 

Oh, but are we all not symbolic? Words

that suggest, but never are the true thing?

Though in voices pure as heaven some sing,

are we more than melodies, songbirds’

piping to the moment? We are but white

petals blown by fragrant breeze and sunlight.

 David M Pitchford 92807