What part of beauty may the common shame,
Where tongues are not so soured by jealousy?
What part of sweetness should yet bear the blame
Of striking sight with matchless harmony?
No floret known did choose her blessed scent,
Nor yet the richness of her love-splashed hue;
The essence of a bloom is heaven-lent
And through God’s blessing, accolades accrue.
Yet lesser blossoms oft resent the sight
Of flawless rivals that attract all eyes,
Laconic praise so set to damn with blight,
By offhand manner, beauty’s worth belies.
Rare beauty is a gift that gods bestow—
Spite is the canker peerless flowers know.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.