As I walk, absent-minded, bearing my load,
I glance to an enigma on the side of the road.
And I am taken, for although the earth is cold,
There stands proudly a rose of vivid gold.

Among the snow and the brush she grows,
Sweeter than her pink and red sisters she smells.
I draw near, for from her heat seems to glow,
And light from her velvety petals does swell.

So I lean in closer, incensed, hearing bells.
And my clumsy hand is pricked by a thorn.
I’d been moved much too quickly, lost footing and fell.
And now I just pray that she fosters no scorn.

Though I’d have made no music, had I not been torn.
I'd have given no pain, had I not deigned to covet.
Yellow roses are friendship, goodwill reborn.
So sister, now only God sings “Dearly Beloved.”