Here you will find the Poem Roses of poet John Crowe Ransom
I entered dutiful, God knows, The room in which I was to sit With dreary unbelieving books. It was surprising, I suppose, To find such happy change in it: There stood a most celestial rose And looked the flower that my love looks Who, where she turns her smiling face Makes heavy earth a hopeful place. I blessed the heart that wished me well When I had been bereft of much, And brought such word of beauty back. I went like one escaping hell To drink its fragrance and to touch, And stroked, O ludicrous to tell! A horrid thing of bric-a-brac, A make-believe, a mockery, And nothing that a rose should be. Red real roses keep a thorn, And save their loveliness a while And in their perfect date unfold. But you, beyond all women born, Have spent so easily your smile, That I am not the less forlorn Nor these ironic walls less cold, Because it smiles, the chilly rose, As you are smiling, I suppose.
