Here you will find the Poem Perfection of poet Roderic Quinn
THIS rose, to which each dawn anew Come bees to fill their honey-sacks, Though sweet in shape, and scent, and hue, Perfection lacks. To gain it were to crown one's toil And set the very world astir: Blow, Rose, make most of sap and soil, Strive, Gardener! Though Youth may dwell some honeyed years In Arcady, most true is this ? There is no joy unmixed with tears, No perfect bliss. Though Love, on high adventure set, Complete achievement may not know ? Reach out your white arms, Juliet! Climb, Romeo!
