The Nightingale and the Rose

A little girl among violets,
Locks, cinnamon curls under Venus’s glory,
The soft sound of nightingales and babbling of brook.
The girl is purest,
She is a rose of silken white,
Resented by lilac
Blossoms chasing dreams of grander beauty.
Starlight twinkles and vanishes
Distant as her soul from earthly things
Close as the hyacinth blossoms at her feet.
Moonlight reflects orbs of blue aster,
Moon-shimmer on wings of bright tempest scales.
Only those brilliant pearls, embraced by purest black, see her in her searching,
Only the nightingale flitting between the trees,
Wake blossoms sprung from winter-endured vine
As birth awakens the sound of a baby’s first cry.
Here she is,
And she is quiet like the night,
And pure like the whitest rose,
And lovely as the spring’s sea of vivid blooms.
I loved her already.
Oh, my darling, do you see those white snowdrops?
They knew my sorrow,
And the heart of a survivor they now know
Though you are gone.