Keats spoke of a rose and how it would not wilt.
This rose came only once and was not made of silk.
PIcked among a garden this one unique rose,
taken from the thorns, this flower she chose.
Sat upon his desk, and nurtured from the stems,
drenched in water, cut in a vase, and looking back at him.
He called the rose loveliest of any in his fences,
this rose compared to others, they had no defenses.
However the secret of this rose was not from one attending.
The secret of its beauty was truly from its sending.
This rose he said was more because a friend gave way,
now the beauty of the perfect rose was given to him today.
Swelling powdered scents flowed in the house and settled,
crimson velvet sculptured rose, green stem among the petals.
Beauty in its temporal form in nature’s moment bloomed,
eternal rose, deep within was nurtured to the tomb.