Sonnet 420

We are not blind yet seldom do we see
The true exquisite beauty of the rose
Self made from humble soil yet grown to be
The sweetest of the sweets a garden knows.
How can that flower from earthen dust distill
The darling perfume of a nose so rare
That it be borne by hand to love instill
As if a scent infused with heaven’s air?
So apt thereto a symbol thus of love
Where though it may enthrall us at first sight
Can long be borne by heaven’s grace above
As any token blessed by living light.
So of these thoughts, fortuity be known,
With eyes unschooled, I picked you for my own.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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