I
What wasteful elegance in thy gay form,
Thou wanton rose! Dost thy Creator know
I would be envious of the bees that swarm
About thy petalled, fairy cup, and show
Such nonchalant response to thy delight?
Or envious of the gaudy butterfly
(On delicate powdery wings not half so soft
To my cheeks as thee) with needs to satisfy
In rare-scented nectar? Had I wings for flight
To thee, pure joy would balance me aloft!

II
How many youthful Poets serve thy Fame?
I can’t conceive that one would overlook
Thy startling beauty! Lest a note of shame
Linger in his poems he must brook
The insult which thy gracious diadem,
Set thus in thorny majesty apart
From Nature’s unpretentious flowering folk,
Poses to the creatures of his art:
Each verse as rigid as a silent gem,
Each rose as transient as a wisp of smoke.

III
This lengthy year I watched for your return
To life with more impatience than the last
(And shall weep wilder tears when thy sojourn
Amongst my hopes is ended). Overcast
With dark philosophies of a world in flux
I sought in words to capture for all time
The merest accent in the infinite voice
Of Wisdom. Ah! But thou, most perfect rhyme,
Most flawless, timeless sonnet, art the crux
Of Truth, the soul of Beauty, and the Poet’s choice!

Copyright (2006) by Arnold Cantor.
All rights reserved.

[Written 1958; the first stanza near the middle of February;
the last two around the middle of March.]