I fear there is nothing left of my wit, and in place of my heart a rose doth sit.
A red rose now blue with sorrow.

It's peddles fall from time to time, like angel's tears, gracing us with a glimmer of that once red rose.

If there are no peddles in the morn will I be a man without sorrow, or a man without love?

Is a rose without peddles still a rose, or simply a thorn?

What will thaw my frosted rose and bloom red love once again?