What part of beauty may the common shame
There with a tongue not soured by jealousy?
What part of her sweet form should bear the blame
Of striking sight with matchless harmony?
No rose as known did choose her blessed scent
Or yet the richness of her love splashed red;
The countenance of blooms is heaven lent
And on ethereal mist such charms dispread.
Yet lesser blossoms oft resent the sight
Of flawless florets that attract all eyes,
Eschewing praise, they may quite damn with blight
And in so doing spoil all beauty’s cause.
Rare beauty is a gift that god’s bestow,
And spite a canker that most flowers know.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.