I see a ROSE down by the creek,
In the valley of grazing sheep -
But those roses against her cheek,
Shall see her weep.

Her fingers fumbled in Love,
Where the Needle may Sew -
The feathers of her Dove,
With Dreams anew.

I spy a Garden upon her cheek,
That bore another Rose -
In his Gentle creek,
Where her Water froze.

The Swans sang of her Rose,
In their immortal Tune -
Where the Dove goes;
Blessing the Moon.